


What Tomorrow Brings

by bouquetofwhoopsiedaisies



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (well first time for Shiro... and first time for three), 80k words of idiots pining but WE MADE IT, Alternate Universe - Historical, Blood and Violence, Cultural Differences, Double Penetration, First Time, Getting Together, I can't believe I forgot those tags whoops sorry, I just really like Vikings, I mean come on they are Vikings..., Loss of Virginity, Medieval Christianity, Multi, Norse paganism, POV switches between characters but switches are broken up into different parts for clarity, Political Intrigue, Religious Elements, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Slow Burn, Threesome, Trans Keith (Voltron), Trans Male Character, Vikings, based on the History Channel's "Vikings" series, is it still info-dumping if I carefully weave it into the narrative?, it's not too graphic tho... I would put the blood level about the same as a Marvel movie, occasional NSFW content but this is mostly plot, this is my slowest slow burn ever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 95,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22704031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bouquetofwhoopsiedaisies/pseuds/bouquetofwhoopsiedaisies
Summary: “Are you going to kill this one, or shall I do it?”  Lance gestured at the monk with his sword.“No,” Keith said, crouching down to look at the man more closely.  Those steely gray eyes flicked over to him, surprised and cautious, but also curious.  Keith smiled, feeling the war paint and drying blood on his face crinkle under the movement.  “I’m keeping this one.  Alive.  I have a feeling he will be very useful.”The monk’s eyes widened with shock.  Keith called for a rope, and when a length was tossed to him, he bound the man’s hands in front of him.“What is your name?”  He asked, curious.“I’m… I am called Shiro,” the man replied.  He was apparently wise enough to not resist the ropes, with several armed warriors standing around him with weapons still drawn and bloody.“Shiro.”  Keith tried out the unfamiliar sounds on his tongue.  He liked it.  “I am Keith.”(History channel "Vikings" inspired AU, where Shiro is a monk in Northumbria in 793 AD when the Galran Vikings kick off their age of exploration)
Relationships: Keith/Kolivan (Voltron), Keith/Kolivan/Shiro (Voltron), Keith/Shiro (Voltron), Kolivan/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 190
Kudos: 126





	1. The Raid

**Author's Note:**

> *Vibrates intensely* I’m very excited about this fic. Spoiler, it’s gonna be a looooong one (I’m just not sure how long at the moment. The bits and pieces I have add up to about… 50k?? And that’s not even finished… 😰 )
> 
>  **Regarding historical accuracy:** okay, look, I dearly love history (says the guy who spent his sweet sixteenth birthday attending a lecture at a museum and _taking notes_ on the topic, no less). Vikings and Old Norse are a special interest of mine and have been since I was in high school or so, and I genuinely enjoy reading books about them and sprinkling in what I know to up _some_ of the historical accuracy level of this fic. That being said, the original inspiration for this was the History Channel TV show “Vikings” which is bomb-ass spectacular as a show but not the most accurate (although the details they often include surprise and please me greatly). There’s also a fair amount of gender/sexuality stuff in here that, frankly, we just don’t have much historical record of, but probably is not the most accurate. Hence, I take my queer writer wand and tap those parts with some fanfiction magic, and hope that it will be enjoyable to read, even if it is not historically accurate. Maybe the Marmora are just a particularly progressive group of Vikings (and Vikings were already pretty darn progressive for their time)
> 
>  **Regarding logistics and linguistics** (okay language but that didn't rhyme): the Garrison monastery is the Lindisfarne monastery, Galra is Jutland, Marmora is Kattegat, Galran is Old Norse, and Francia and Northumbria are still historical Francia and Northumbria because I started to run out of VLD place names.
> 
> The title comes from Fever Ray's "If I Had a Heart" (if you're a fan of the "Vikings" show, you might notice that's the opening credits song)
> 
> (Wow that's a long author's note... sorry)
> 
> Enjoy!

“There are no lands to the west…” 

Keith sighed as Hunk started muttering to himself again. He loved the man like his own brother, but sometimes the boatbuilder’s nerves could rival those of the most skittish horse. “Hunk…”

“Building this boat was foolish,” Hunk went on. Whether his words were for Keith, or their men, or himself alone, Keith couldn’t tell. “This is a journey of fools. There is nothing to the west, only unending ocean.” 

“Hunk.” 

“We’ll die out here, if not by storms then by starvation and thirst—”

“ _Hunk_.”

“—or being driven mad with the endless sound of waves and gulls—” The larger man broke off with a gasp, his eyes flying open. Keith opened his eyes as well, only having just noticed the cries of the birds when Hunk called attention to them. They both sat up and looked over the side of the ship, as did the rest of their men.

The sky was a dim, cold gray, and the horizon was obscured by fog. They could see only a few seagulls swooping through the haze, but could hear many more. Keith squinted into the mist; where there were gulls, there had to be…

“Land!” Pidge gasped, pointing. There, half-hidden in the fog, was a rocky gray island. Some sort of structure – a castle or keep, probably – loomed atop the island, built of the same dark gray stone that littered the beach and cliffs. They had never seen a building quite of this shape before; it was certainly not Galran. And if it was not Galran, that meant that they had indeed reached those unknown lands to the west. 

Keith grinned. “Prepare to go ashore. We will see if the stories of these rich lands are true soon enough.” 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

They landed their ships in a small cove on the pebbled beach. There was no one in sight, but Keith knew that didn’t mean no one had spotted them. If that building up there was indeed a castle or even just a fort, they could expect a strong resistance from whoever guarded it. Hopefully the gods would be on their side, though.

They crept up the hillside with bows drawn, shields raised, and swords and axes drawn. They looked around, but no one had seemed to come out to meet them. Even the gate was left wide open, and no guards or archers stopped them from marching right in. The very first person they came across was a strange old man who wore a long, brown robe like a dress, and whose hair was shaved close to his head on the sides and back and was close-cropped on top. He was carrying a bucket of water, and he stopped to stare at them as they approached the open gate. 

“ _Hwæt hātest þū? Hwanan cymst þū?_ ” The man spoke to them in some strange tongue, looking confused. His confusion mounted to panic when the group not only kept advancing, but also lifted their weapons. “ _Nese! Ōþstand!_ ” He brandished a hand at them, probably demanding them to stop. “ _Gā onweg!_ ” 

Keith lifted his sword and plunged it straight through the incessantly-yelling man’s chest. He fell with a choked cry.

A gasp came from somewhere off to the side and they saw another man dressed in the same brown robes. His eyes were wide with terror and he stumbled back as he ran off, screaming “ _Helpe! Cīg þǣm weardum!_ ” 

“After that one,” Keith nodded in the direction of the man, and two archers took aim and shot him in the back. Keith looked around the courtyard just as the bells in the tower began to toll, far too late to be called a warning. “They were fools to leave this place unguarded. Take anything of value. Kill any you deem necessary.”

It was less a battle and more of a slaughter. Whoever these men were, they were not warriors. They did little more than run about the compound in terror, and went down as easily as livestock. All of them were dressed alike, with their long robes and shorn hair and sandals that they tripped over as they ran, screaming. 

Keith could not help but wonder why this place was so completely unguarded, especially when they broke down the doors to the buildings and discovered the interiors full of gold and silver treasures – candlesticks, golden goblets, jewel-encrusted dishes… even the tablecloths on that peculiar table standing alone on the dais without any chairs beside it (an altar, perhaps?), was stitched with golden thread. Keith and his men ripped the treasures off the walls and shoved them into sacks, cutting down all they came across and painting the white tablecloths and gray flagstones red with slick blood. 

“I am distrustful of this place,” Hunk said, whipping his axe through the air to let the drops of blood splatter across the stones underfoot. “This is too easy of a raid. Surely, there has to be some threat we have not yet found.” 

“This seems to be the last room to loot,” Pidge said. The shield-maiden looked around the room, another place decorated with paintings of men and women with golden circles behind their heads. “It is unusual that such treasures are unguarded, but perhaps that is just the way of this land. After all, we are the first Galra warriors to sail here.” 

“This place is strange,” Lance said, picking up a silver candlestick. “No women anywhere. Only these weak men, with their strange robes and stranger hair.” He plucked the white wax candle off the silver candlestick, weighed it in his hand for a moment, then tossed it over his shoulder and shoved the candlestick in his sack. “Plenty of treasure to loot, but no women,” he sighed, sounding disappointed. 

“They’re very strange.” Pidge nodded in agreement. “Not even I want these men.” 

Lance opened his mouth to retort (probably something crude that would have earned him a swift kick from the short but fierce Viking), but a quiet creak came from the direction of the altar and made them all pause. 

Keith locked eyes with Pidge, who was standing closest to the altar. He nodded, and the shield-maiden adjusted her grip on her sword and crept toward the altar, boots soundless over the stone floors. The altar was not flush with the wall; there was a space between them, perhaps just big enough for a person to hide… and there was a bulky shadow there.

Pidge lunged forward with the speed of a snake striking, seizing the man by the collar of his robes and dragging him out. She threw the man to the floor in front of Keith, who raised his sword…

“Please, don’t kill me!”

Keith froze, blinking. He had understood him; that was Galran. 

The man on the floor in front of him was dressed in the same strange, long, plain robes as the other strange men around here, with his hair cut short and shaved at the sides and back save for a longer patch at the front, which was white (making him even stranger than the other men). His eyes were gray as the fog that had shielded their ship’s approach to this strange little island, and they were wide with terror as they looked up at Keith. He did not appear to be Galran. 

“How is it that you can speak our tongue?” Keith asked him, lowering his sword but not loosening his hold on it. 

The man swallowed thickly. “I have traveled, bringing the word of God to other lands. I learned a bit of the Galran language while traveling.”

“God?” Keith looked around at the gold and silver and fine cloth tapestries decorating the room. “Ah, then you are a shaman of sorts? A speaker for your god?”

The man’s mouth fell open a bit in shock, and Keith got the sense he had said something offensive to this strange man, but he didn’t know or particularly care what that might have been. 

“I am a monk,” the man said. “I have devoted my life to God. We bring His word to others, but no man can speak for Him.” 

Keith hummed, thinking about it. “And all this,” he waved his sword at the objects in the room. “All this treasure is, what, gifts for your god?” 

The man considered it. “In a way. I suppose, yes. People give their riches to the Church to save their souls.” 

Keith snorted. What use did gods have for the riches of mortals, when they had everything at their fingertips? And what was this ‘souls’ thing he spoke of? “Well, now you’ll give them to us, to save your life.” He nodded to the others, who began grabbing the treasures and shoving them into sacks. 

The man’s eyes went wide with horror as Hunk ripped a giant golden thing encrusted with gemstones off the wall. Keith had seen that same symbol all over this strange building, in metal and wood. Keith thought it looked a bit like ᚾ, their rune for ‘N’, but with the shorter line straight rather than angled as it should be. Perhaps their god’s name began with an ‘N’, or whatever other letter that symbol represented in this strange-sounding tongue they spoke here. 

“Are you going to kill this one, or shall I do it?” Lance’s voice brought Keith back from his thoughts. He was gesturing at the monk with his sword. 

Keith looked back at the man on the ground, with his strange robes and strange short hair. He expected to see fear in his eyes, and true, it was there, even as he glared up at Lance. But more than that, he saw the steely fire in his eyes. They were hard, determined. As if to say _“if I die by your sword, you will regret it”_. Keith didn’t know how a dead man could make his killer regret anything, but he was intrigued by the man’s eyes. 

“No,” Keith said, crouching down to look at the man more closely. Those steely gray eyes flicked over to him, surprised and cautious, but also curious. Keith smiled, feeling the war paint and drying blood on his face crinkle under the movement. “I’m keeping this one. Alive. I have a feeling he will be very useful.” 

The man’s eyes widened with shock. Keith called for a rope, and when a length was tossed to him, he bound the man’s hands in front of him. 

“What is your name?” He asked, curious. 

“I’m… I am called Shiro,” the man replied. He was apparently wise enough to not resist the ropes, with several armed warriors standing around him with weapons still drawn and bloody. 

“Shiro.” Keith tried out the unfamiliar sounds on his tongue. He liked it. “I am Keith.” 

Keith grabbed his captive by the upper arms and hauled him up to his feet. The man was taller than Keith, but Keith was strong and Shiro knew what was good for him, so he went willingly. 

“Wait—” Shiro said suddenly as Keith started to lead him toward the door. 

Keith looked back at him and found him looking at a book lying on the ground near where Shiro had been thrown. That misshapen ᚾ had been tooled on the leather cover in intricate lines. 

Shiro looked up, his eyes pleading. “Please, if I may be permitted to take just one thing…” 

Lance scoffed at the request, but Keith tilted his head thoughtfully. “This?” He stooped to pick it up and flipped through the pages curiously. The pages were a thick, heavy parchment, and bore detailed writing in what Keith could only assume was the language of this land. Many pages also featured beautiful drawings painted in rich reds, greens, blues, and most interestingly, gold. 

“I– I wanted to save it,” Shiro admitted. “That’s why I came here, to the chapel, when I heard the warning bells.” 

Keith let out a _hmph_ and scratched a nail at the gold on the page. Shiro gasped, sounding offended, but Keith paid him little mind. Some of the gold flaked off, but disintegrated with only the brush of a finger. Nothing worthwhile. Keith turned the book on its side and grasped the spine, shaking it roughly enough to make Shiro step back half a step in either fear or horror, but no hidden treasures fell out of the pages. 

Keith looked up at the monk. “Of all the treasures I can see in this room, this is what you would save? It is worthless.” He snapped the book closed and thrust it at the man’s chest. “Fine, then. Keep it. What do I care?” He nodded to one of his men, who took their newest captive out to the courtyard to be placed with the others, while Keith and the rest of them kept exploring the buildings. As he left, Keith noticed Shiro wrap his arms protectively around the book. He wondered exactly what value it had to the man, and why it would bring such a look of relief on his face despite the certain hardship he was now heading towards. He also wondered if by allowing Shiro to keep it, he had somehow put himself in the man’s good graces, if even a little bit.

The very last room to investigate turned out to be the one devoid of treasure. Instead, it was only filled with dozens of wooden desks holding rolls of parchment, sheafs of heavy paper, pots of ink and strange writing utensils made of feathers. Lance picked one feather up, examined the pointed end that was coated in black ink, and then shrugged and jammed it back into the pot. The careless movement knocked the pot over, sending it smashing to the floor. The noise startled Hunk, who jumped back and knocked over a lit candelabra, which fell onto one of the desks. 

“Oops,” Hunk managed to squeak.

Keith looked at the flames that were already licking at the paper. “Leave it,” he decided. “We’ve taken what we can from this place. It is of no more use to us.” 

Lance pushed over a second candelabra on the way out, laughing as more of the books caught on fire. 

While the flames grew higher and smoke poured out of the building, they rounded up the handful of men they would take back as slaves, hefted sacks of looted items over their shoulders, and headed back to the ships. No one even stopped them on the way back, and by the time they were setting sail, the building – Keith couldn’t imagine it had been much of a keep or fortress – was in flames. 

Shiro and the other monks watched in horror as their home went up in smoke and grew further and further away. One of them, a bit older than Shiro, muttered something darkly as he glared at the Galrans.

Keith looked at Shiro and gestured at the other monk. “What did he say?” 

Shiro’s eyes widened at the question and he looked at his friend worriedly. He turned his gaze back to Keith. “I… I didn’t catch it, sorry.” 

Keith didn’t believe that for a minute. He stepped closer and sank to a crouch, running a finger along the edge of his blood-soaked axe. “What. did he. say?” He asked again, slowly, and lifted his eyes to bore into Shiro’s with feigned innocence as the blood of his kinsmen welled along the edge of the weapon and dripped onto the deck of the ship. 

Shiro swallowed thickly. “He said… may God strike you down where you stand for your crimes.” His voice was quiet, but there was that fire in his eyes again. He wasn’t just relaying the other monk’s words – he was echoing them as well. 

Keith laughed. “On the contrary, this just shows that the gods have smiled upon me and my men.” He leaned in closer, smiling coldly. “You’re the ones who should be worried about the gods’ favor.” 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

The journey back was just as long and laborious as the journey there had been. They left the foreign cliffs and unfamiliar landscape behind, and found themselves back in the endless, empty expanse of the sea, their path guided only by the stars at night and Pidge and Hunk’s sun-board during the day. Sometimes storms buffeted their ship for days on end, and when they passed they had to correct their course. Other days, it was so cloudy and overcast that the sun could cast no shadow on their sun-board, and they had to use the opaque white sun-stone to locate the sun enough to get a reading. It was impossible to tell where they were, but at least they knew they were heading east. They would not know for certain where in Galra – or even the lands to the north – they would end up, until they got there. 

The monks did not take to the sea voyage well. One died only a few days into the trip. Another vomited so much that it was almost a blessing when he too died and they could tip his body over the side of the ship, sending him off to the underwater hall of the giantess Rán, who was said to take those who died at sea. 

The remaining monks muttered incessantly to themselves. 

“What are they saying?” Keith asked Shiro one day. 

“They are reciting the Lord’s prayer,” Shiro replied. 

“Which lord?” Keith asked. “And how can the lord who rules your lands help them when they are so far away?” 

Shiro opened his mouth, then closed it, then shook his head. “It is not a lord who rules over lands. It is a prayer to our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, the Son of God Himself.” 

Keith studied him curiously. “I have never heard of this god.” 

Shiro snorted quietly. “I would not imagine you had.” 

Keith narrowed his eyes, having got the sense he was being looked down on for something. “Tell them to stop their prayers. The chatter is annoying, and your god cannot save you now. Your fate is in the hands of myself and my men.” 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Whatever Keith said about God, Shiro knew he had to be wrong. Regardless, he was correct that these Galran Northmen did have the power to kill any of them at will, so he urged his brothers to stop praying aloud and instead only speak in the safety of their own hearts, where the pagan ears could not hear them. 

Among the handful of monks who had been captured, only Shiro knew any amount of Galran and was able to converse with their captors. He tried to relay what was said to his brothers, but often was silenced with a steely look from one of the warriors and an order to be quiet. 

Their ship was a strange one, Shiro thought. It was long and slender, but nowhere near the size of any English ship. Truly, it did not look like anything that was fit for such a long sea voyage. But it surprised him how easily it sliced through the waves and how fast it flew when the wind was in the sails… it was far faster than any ship Shiro had ever seen. The only downside was that they were completely exposed to the elements as they sailed; the warriors could turn up their fur hoods and hunker down under round-shields lashed to the side of the boat, but the monks tied up in the middle of the ship had nothing to protect them from the cold ocean spray. 

Shiro watched one woman with braided, chestnut-brown hair, who he believed was called “Pidge”, tuck herself under the arm of the big axe-wielding man, who pressed a kiss to her forehead and rubbed her arm against the cold. 

“May I ask a question?” Shiro asked Keith quietly when the man came to distribute small, hard chunks of bread to the captives. He nodded behind Keith, to where Pidge had dozed off against the other warrior, heedless of the rocking boat. “She… she fought with you. But she is a woman?”

Keith glanced at her, then turned back to Shiro with a nod. “She is a woman. She is also a warrior, like any of us.”

“Is that not strange?” Shiro asked. 

“No,” Keith said simply. “Not among the Galra.” 

“But isn’t it dangerous? To be a woman who fights in battle?” Shiro asked. 

“Is battle not dangerous for all?” Keith laughed. “Shield-maidens like Pidge are to be feared and respected, little priest. Never underestimate a woman, for they are often more cunning than even men. You should take care to remember that, when we reach your new home.” 

“It will never be my home,” Shiro told him, his words clipped and hard. 

“That’s not really up to you, is it?” Keith patted his cheek. “Just eat your bread, priest.” 

Shiro did not know what to expect from the Northmen’s home. He had been told that the Galra of the north were a barbaric people who waged war for the sheer pleasure of it, and worshipped many false gods. So far, Keith and his men were meeting those expectations; they had set upon the defenseless monastery with swords and axes and vile war cries, had slaughtered scores of helpless monks and took the treasures of the Church for their own greed, and now, as they took the remaining monks back to their domain to be slaves, they paid little attention to their suffering in the cold and damp of the strange, open-air ship. Even when a monk passed away beside Shiro, the Galra’s only response was to unceremoniously toss the dead man over the side and into the freezing sea without so much as a single prayer for his soul, to the shock and horror of the other monks aboard the ship. They were truly a barbaric race. 

And yet… even as he saw all of this, Shiro couldn’t help but think of the other Galran he had met, all those years ago in Francia. He himself had been a young monk, eager to use his youth and hardy stamina to travel all over the known kingdoms spreading the word of God. But he had been foolish in his choice to venture into the woods in search of berries and nuts one night on his travels, and had become hopelessly lost. He surely would have died, had it not have been for the Galran trader he came across; a tall, pale man with his light hair shaved at the sides to bare a set of tattoos on his scalp, who spoke a few halting words of Shiro’s language. The man – who called himself Ulaz – had saved Shiro’s life, and had taught the curious monk some of his language. 

_“I have to confess,” Shiro had said one night while the two sat around their fire. “I thought all Galra were barbarians. I am glad to have been proven wrong.”_

_“Our customs are different,” Ulaz had told him. “But we are men all the same. That is important to remember, when one travels the world.”_

Shiro looked across the boat and watched Keith as he gazed out over the ocean. There was still blood on the other man’s clothes and weapons, and the dark paint around his eyes and down his cheeks was smudged, making him look like his skin was that of a devil or a corpse rather than a man. 

Shiro wanted to dismiss Ulaz’s words as simple over-optimism, based on what he had seen Keith and his men do in the past several days alone. He wanted to throw that away and believe wholeheartedly that these were not men, but monsters. He _should_ ; the other monks did, from their mutterings in a language that, thankfully, their captors could not understand. 

But when Keith looked at him, his eyes were not those of a monster. They were cold, yes, but also bright, like a star on a winter night. And always so curious and inquisitive. And the color… Shiro had never seen eyes such a deep indigo that they were nearly purple. _Inhuman_ , another monk muttered, _unnatural_. But Shiro couldn’t help but feel they were beautiful.

Shiro turned away and pulled up the hood of his robe to shield himself from the chilly spray of the sea. He should not have those thoughts, he reminded himself. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Early one morning, Shiro woke to find that the empty, gray sky and endless expanse of ocean had been replaced with towering rocky cliffs and verdant green mountains topped with snow to their right. They were no longer sailing through the open ocean, but alongside land. 

“Where are we?” Shiro asked. The closest warrior, a big fellow named Hunk – who despite his size and the weapons at his side, seemed oddly frightened of the monks – glanced at him when he spoke, but quickly looked away without answering. Instead, it was Keith who answered his question.

“The western edge of Galra,” he replied. 

“Your homeland?” Shiro asked, eyeing the cliffs. They looked wholly uninhabitable, but perhaps that was befitting of these people. 

Keith laughed softly. “No. These lands are owned by a different jarl. We will continue east to Marmora, my lands.” 

“Jarl Kolivan’s lands,” another warrior muttered quietly. 

Keith’s eyes hardened and he shot the other man a cold look. “Can I not simplify matters for this foreigner in peace?” His lips curved into a thin smile and he held out his hands in a placating shrug, but there was enough tension there to be cut with a knife. “Yes, we all live under the jarl’s protection, and we are grateful for it. But need we explain every intricacy of our political structure to these strangers?”

The other man met him with a chilly stare, but eventually looked away and backed down. “You have a funny way of showing your ‘gratitude’ to your jarl, by running off to the west without him,” he muttered. 

“And why are you here, then?” Keith shot back. “I suppose you would rather continue to raid the barren lands to the east, as he commanded? Perhaps you needn’t collect your share of this treasure, hm?” 

The other man narrowed his eyes. “The jarl will decide what to do with the treasure. Not you. You swore fealty to him, remember? What we own, he owns. Even more so in your case.” 

Shiro couldn’t make sense of that, but the words made Keith’s expression shift like he had been slapped. 

He glared at the man. “Go relieve the man on rudder duty. He’s probably tired, and you seem to have plenty of energy to spare, talking like that.” 

The other man gave him one last cold look before stalking off to the back of the ship. 

Shiro held his breath until the man was out of earshot, then he spoke up, unable to help himself. “What is a… yearl?”

“Jarl,” Keith corrected, and Shiro had a brief, sudden flashback to that forest in Francia, when Ulaz tried to teach him the strange runes the Galrans wrote with and wrap his mouth around the ‘y’ sound of the ‘j’. Keith pushed away from the side of the boat and came to crouch in front of Shiro to speak to him, resting his forearms on his knees for balance as the boat rocked with the waves. “It is the highest rank below a king. They rule the lands in the king’s stead, and they govern our towns, villages, and farmsteads.” 

Like a chieftain, perhaps, Shiro thought, but he didn’t say it aloud (partly for fear of offending the man, and partly for lack of knowing how to say the word ‘chieftain’ in the harsh Galran tongue)

Keith rolled up his sleeve and bared a wrought silver bracelet around his left wrist, intricately carved with the ends made in the image of a serpent’s head. “Jarls grant arm-rings to freemen. We swear our fealty to our jarls, and they give us their protection. An oath sworn on an arm-ring like this is of the highest regard and should never be taken lightly.” He rolled his sleeve back down before Shiro could ask any further questions, and braced his hands on his thighs as he gracefully pushed up to his feet again, heedless of the swaying ship. “We will reach our destination in about two days.”

Shiro blinked, taken aback by the change in topic. “And… what will happen then?” 

Keith shrugged. “There may be a Thing – an assembly – to discuss what to do with the treasure. Perhaps a feast welcoming us home, if we are lucky. Neither really concerns you and your lot. You’ll be distributed as part of the hoard and live out your days as slaves.” 

Shiro’s heart turned to lead and dropped heavily into his gut. He had known that, of course… what other reason did the Galran warriors have for keeping them? But to hear it said so callously… 

Keith’s eyes flicked to the monk sitting beside Shiro, who had been watching the exchange warily since they had begun speaking. “You may inform the others of your fates, if you wish,” Keith said. “If they haven’t figured it out themselves, it would be best if they know.” 

Shiro nodded stiffly, feeling numb. No sooner had he turned to the monk beside him was his brother nudging him insistently. _“What are they saying, Brother Shirogane?”_ He asked in hushed English.

Shiro swallowed hard and relayed the message that they would be sold as slaves once they reached their destination. The monks around him let out quiet sobs and began whispering prayers to themselves. Shiro had a brief, terrible thought that even prayers couldn’t help them all now. 

No, no, he told himself; just like thinking the Viking leader’s eyes were beautiful, that was another thought he should not be having. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anglo-Saxon/Old English phrases (to my knowledge. I’m not an expert)  
>  _Hwæt hātest þū? Hwanan cymst þū?_ – Who are you? Where do you come from?  
>  _Nese! Ōþstand!_ – No! Stop!  
>  _Gā onweg!_ – Go away! (Side note, I find it fascinating how this phrase is said almost the same in Modern English, or at least very close)  
>  _Helpe! Cīg þǣm weardum!_ – Help! We’re under attack!
> 
> Also if you are wondering about the section breaks, ᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬ is just "Voltron" in Younger Fuþark (futhark) runes. Which were actually used a few centuries after this fic takes place but shhhh google didn't have the earlier Elder Fuþark or Fuþorc...


	2. Return to Marmora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unusually long, compared to the rest (o_o;;) A lot happened on that day, what can I say? I would have broken it into two, but… it didn’t read as well, separated.
> 
>  **Tags have been updated** , since I forgot a few (I’m apparently way too used to writing trans Keith… ~~definitely not projection lmao~~ ). Also do note that the **rating has been bumped up to E** due to parts 3-4 of this chapter. This fic is gonna be 85% plot, 5% smut, and 5 ~~0000~~ % idiots pining, but I believe even one instance of porn means the whole fic gets marked Explicit rather than Mature.
> 
> Bit of a warning for some… well, I hesitate to call it “transphobia” because it’s not done out of _malice_ , just genuine misunderstanding. It’s essentially Shiro having a bit of trouble coming to terms with the concept of Keith being trans (not that it’s even called that because the concept vastly predates the word as we know it). It comes up in the middle of part 1, and a bit in parts 5 and 6, and will be more elaborated on in the end author’s note. However, if references to a trans male character as a woman for even a couple of sentences bothers you, do tread carefully around the middle of part 1, 5, and 6. 
> 
> Disclaimer, I have taken historical views on gender/sexuality into consideration and molded them into what I want, because it’s *MY* very self-indulgent Vikings AU. So no, it’s not historically accurate, but honestly? It’s not _that_ much outside the realm of possibility, just kinda above and beyond what was there. (more on that in the end AN)

It wasn’t long until the stark cliffs softened into beautiful fjords carpeted in lush forests, and small farmsteads and beaches strewn with tiny fishing boats dotted the shore. They passed little hamlets where people waved and called out to them as they sailed by. Soon they arrived at what Shiro had to assume was either a very large village or a castle-less town. Docks jutted out onto the water, fishermen with nets lined the shore, and between wooden and thatched-roof houses, livestock clucked and mooed, while people called out to each other as they ran down to the docks to greet them. Some of the monks averted their eyes from the women, who wore their hair uncovered by proper caps and down as if in their bedroom, or mostly down aside from intricate braids. Based on the hoes and tools in their hands and the sweat on their brows, many of the people gathered appeared to be farmers, and yet the men and women alike wore clothes made from rich blues, reds, and greens. They wore beads of colored glass, shell, and metal in strings around their necks, hanging from brooches and cloak pins, and woven into the braids of their hair and beards, far showier than any proper, devoted peasant from Shiro’s homeland. 

Ropes were thrown from the ship as it pulled up to the dock, and several strong men (and more startlingly,  _ women _ ) grabbed them to haul the boat to a stop and tie it to the moorings. Greetings were called out, sacks of gold and silver ( _ holy items! _ ) were handed over the side of the ship, and the warriors gathered up their weapons and supplies and disembarked. Rough hemp ropes were tied loosely around each of the monk’s necks and they were led off the ship like dogs, while people stared and whispered among themselves about their strange clothes and hair. 

“Keith.” A voice cut through the commotion, and the crowd quieted. A tall, broad man built like a bear was standing there, hand on the pommel of the sword at his hip. His jet-black hair was plaited in a long, thin braid down his back, and a scar stretched diagonally across his face. He did not look amused by the display here. 

“Antok,” Keith smiled and stretched out his hand to gesture to the sacks of stolen treasures. “Look what we found to the west.” 

The man, Antok, frowned. “Your jarl wants to see you. Immediately.” He glanced at the rest of the crew. “All of you.” 

Hushed murmurs fell over the crowd as they made their way through the town. Shiro kept his head down, but stole glances around them as much as he was able. There was no castle here, and the structures were built of wood and earth rather than stones, but they were hardly primitive. The eaves and doorways were carved and painted, but Shiro was being tugged along too fast to get a decent look at them. As they walked, Keith gestured for the sack Hunk carried and rooted through it until he pulled out the cross from the chapel. It was, objectively, the most valuable thing the Galrans had taken, both in terms of riches and in terms of the effect it had on the monks, who shook their heads and muttered in horror as they watched him wrap a hand around the shaft and carry it beside him as carelessly as a sword. He also took the rope his comrade held, and Shiro realized a moment later that it was  _ his  _ rope, and his life was now in Keith’s hands, quite literally.

They made their way up the hill to a large structure. It was wooden like the rest of the houses, but far larger and with more detailed carvings, including a pair of fearsome dragon heads crossing into the sky atop the peak of the roof. Shiro wondered if this was the Galran version of a castle – nowhere near as fine as the castles of his homeland, but grand in its own way. 

The carved wooden doors were thrown open, and the crowd filed into what looked like a feasting hall. At the head of the hall was a raised set of steps upon which sat two chairs, both elegantly carved from wood and draped with furs. Seated on the larger of the two chairs – itself finely-carved and decorated enough that Shiro wanted to call it a throne, despite the absence of gold – sat a broad-shouldered man. His tunic and cloak were a fine, rich indigo and embroidered with intricate white stitching in geometric patterns, so unlike the floral embroidery of Shiro’s people. A scar ran down the right side of his face, twisting his mouth into a perpetual scowl. His eyes were such a light shade of brown that they appeared to be almost golden (like a devil, Shiro couldn’t help but think). His hair was a dark silver, but from his face and physique he did not appear to be old. He kept his hair shaved close at the sides of his head to bare a fearsome red and black eagle tattooed onto the side of his scalp. The rest of his hair was tied back in a series of braids like so many of his men. Such long hair on these men was so strange, Shiro thought… but then again, everything about them was strange. 

The man on the throne was talking with someone – a tall, pale man whose platinum-colored hair was also shaved at the sides and plaited down the back (though not as long as that of the first man), and Shiro realized with a jolt that he recognized the man as Ulaz, that Galran trader he had met all those years ago in Francia. Had their fates really crossed again, here? 

Before Shiro could ask Keith about Ulaz, the man on the throne got to his feet and a hush settled over the crowd gathered. The townsfolk packed the longhouse to the sides, and the warriors from the ship remained in the center. 

Keith strode forward ahead of the group, towards the man. “My lord,” he smiled, and held out his hands to show off the gilt cross and the rope tied to Shiro. “We have brought you gold, slaves, and more… treasures of untold value from the west.”

“I ordered you to go east for the summer raids,” the man said, his voice deep and low. 

“Those lands are empty of treasure. We have taken all they have to offer,” Keith said. He gestured behind him, and several warriors came forward with sacks of looted holy items. Shiro and the monks fought back gasps and flinches as the heathens upended the sacks and let the precious items clatter noisily to the floor. 

Keith spread his hand, indicating the piles of gold and silver. “The lands to the west, however, do exist, and are rich and ripe for the taking.” 

“So you risked the lives of two dozen men and women on stories and rumors,” the man frowned. 

“My lord Kolivan,” the shield-maiden Pidge stepped forward. She might have reached only mid-chest on the taller man were they on even ground, but she did not look intimidated by him. She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye as she spoke. “We left with two dozen warriors, and have returned with the same two dozen. We suffered no losses on this raid. How often does that happen, when we raid east? Every risk was calculated, and turned out better than we expected. If this journey shows anything, it is that there is much to be gained by venturing west.” 

Murmurs of both agreement and argument rippled through the crowd. Kolivan’s eyes scanned the townspeople and warriors gathered before settling on Keith once more. His frown deepened slightly at the self-satisfied smirk on the warrior’s lips. 

“We will discuss the possibility – and more importantly, the risks – of any future raids at the next Thing,” Kolivan declared. “Tonight, though, we should celebrate the safe return of our warriors, no matter how reckless they may be.” He cast a pointed look at Keith, then addressed the group as a whole. “You have fought hard and traveled far – farther than normal, it seems. You may each choose two items from the hoard as your payment. The rest will be stored and distributed fairly in times of need.”

Murmurs of agreement and assent swept through the crowd. Shiro was surprised by the decision; he had expected the Viking lord – jarl, he reminded himself – to keep all the riches for himself. 

Kolivan took a seat on his throne once more and gestured to Keith. “You were the leader of this expedition? Go on, then, take your pick.” 

Keith stepped forward and inspected the treasures, picking some up to examine them. In the end, he selected a small golden cross with polished amethyst inlay that had been hacked off a candlestick in the chapel… and the rope tied around Shiro’s neck. 

Kolivan arched an eyebrow at the choice. “A slave?”

“Could use another set of hands around the house,” Keith reasoned. “And this one speaks our language. Might be useful.” 

Kolivan studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “You have made your choice. Let the next warrior come forward, then.” 

Keith ushered Shiro off to the side of the crowd to make way for the next man, who grabbed a large cross and a communion chalice encrusted with rubies. Shiro watched, aghast and with disgust burning in his throat, as the rest of the holy items were divided up among the heathen warriors. One even went so far as to place a gilt bowl meant for holding the communion hosts upon his head like a hat, while the others in the crowd laughed at the display. A few people here and there, who looked to be farmers by their clothes, selected the remaining monks as slaves. After everyone had gone, Kolivan ordered the rest of the treasure to be packed up in a sack and declared once again that they would be distributed fairly over time.

“The feast will be held tonight at sundown,” Kolivan said finally. “Those who are able should ride up the coast and inform the farmsteads further from town that their brethren have returned home safely, and of the festivities.” 

A few cheers went up and the crowd filed out of the feast hall, talking excitedly amongst themselves. Soon the only ones remaining were Kolivan, Keith, Shiro, and the sack of leftover looted items. Shiro was confused why Keith did not leave with the rest of the townsfolk and take him back to his house, wherever that was. Before he could think too much on it, though, Kolivan turned away and went through a door along the side of the hall. Keith picked up the sack of gold and hefted it over his shoulder, tugged lightly on the rope to prompt Shiro forward, and to Shiro’s surprise, followed Kolivan. Through the door was a short corridor that seemed to wind around to behind the large feasting hall, and which emptied into a modest kitchen. Perhaps this was the jarl’s home? But then why was Keith here…?

Keith let out a heavy sigh as he followed the jarl. “Are you still angry with me, husband? I would have thought a hoard of this size would be enough to appease you.” 

Shiro’s head jerked up, his feet stopping under him.  _ Husband? _ But… but that was impossible! How could two men…?

He only realized he had stopped walking in his astonishment when the rope around his neck went taut. Keith spared him half a glance as he tugged on the rope, but most of his attention seemed fixed on his… his husband. It was enough to shake Shiro out of his thoughts, though, and he quickly kept pace with them once more. He kept his head down, but his ears were wide open. 

“It is not the size of the hoard that displeases me,” Kolivan said. “It is that you deliberately disobeyed me to get it,  _ wife _ .” 

Shiro tripped over his own feet at the word.  _ Wife?! _ He looked up in shock, just in time to see Keith’s expression sour – the same look he had had on the boat when that other warrior had muttered something about  _ “what we own, the jarl owns. Even more so in your case.”  _

“You  _ knew  _ my thoughts on raiding to the east again,” Keith said, glaring up at the other man. “There is nothing there. We told you that.  _ I  _ told you that. Did you doubt my word? Or did you doubt my abilities to find the lands to the west? I told you they were out there, I told you Hunk and Pidge had found a new way to navigate the open sea, and  _ still  _ you told us to go east, to lands just as poor as we if not more. Even before you announced it at the Thing, you  _ knew  _ how I felt about it.” 

“And _ you _ knew my thoughts on going west,” Kolivan shot back. “It is far too much of a risk.”

“But one that pays its own rewards!” Keith said, spreading his arms to gesture to the sack of gold in his left hand and the rope in his right – the rope that jostled against Shiro’s neck as he stared, gaping and uncomprehendingly, at Keith. Keith… Keith was a… a woman?? But… no…  _ how _ ??

“You got lucky, Keith.” Kolivan frowned. “Next time you might not be so fortunate. And that is a risk I am not willing to take.” He paused as if realizing something, then turned sharply to glare at Shiro. “And what is the matter with you, slave? Close your mouth; you look like a dead fish.”

Shiro snapped his mouth shut at the command. 

Keith turned to look at him as well, brow furrowing. “What?” The word fell, hard and impatient, from the warrior’s mouth. 

Shiro’s mind felt like that little ship being buffeted about by waves once more. But the two Galrans were looking at him like they wanted an answer, so he latched onto the only word he could. “... _ wife? _ ” It came out more like a squeak than a proper word, let alone a full question. 

Keith stiffened. “Legally, yes. I am the wife of the jarl. But it is only a title.” 

“‘Legally’...” Kolivan echoed with all the same distaste Keith had uttered the word. He turned away. “Where has the romance gone, husband?” 

Shiro’s eyes widened.  _ Hus _ — _?! _ But… but… 

Keith rolled his eyes with a sigh. “You know what I mean, and you know it is true. I cherish our marriage, even if I resent the title.” 

“Is being my wife such a terrible thing?” Kolivan asked. 

Shiro thought Keith couldn’t shock him any further, but even that was proven wrong when Keith lifted a foot and lightly kicked at the taller man’s knee – a playful action devoid of any real intent to harm, but still unthinkable for a wife to do to a husband. “Certainly not, were your wife a woman. But when your wife is a man in all but birth, the word causes friction. You know this,” Keith told him. 

To Shiro’s surprise, Kolivan didn’t sidestep the kick, nor did he raise a hand to strike back for the insolence. Instead, a breath of air left his nose in a hint of a laugh as his lips pulled back in a wry smile. “Were I king, rather than Zarkon, rest assured that the law would be changed to allow a man and a man or a woman and a woman to be legally wed.” 

“Careful, or someone might think you’re planning to take the throne…” Keith smirked. Their words were politically charged, but their tones were warm and teasing; Shiro got the distinct sense that the two of them were flirting, yet he failed to see how the subject of royal deposement was at all flirtatious. He was also still incredibly confused as to how Keith was a woman, considering how he fought and how he looked and carried himself. Or, even if he was a man, how a man could be another man’s wife. 

Keith either didn’t notice or didn’t care that Shiro’s thoughts were whirling a mile a minute. He seemed to have deemed the conversation over with, and instead let go of the rope tied around Shiro’s neck and turned to set the sack of treasure on the kitchen table. The goblets, bowls, metal crosses, and gems that had been ripped out of the Garrison’s altar clattered loudly inside the bag as he set them down and began to pull them out. “To think, all this isn’t enough to win your heart…” Keith pouted, but it sounded more facetious than it did really resentful. 

Kolivan sighed as he watched him. “What need have you to win something that is already yours?” He walked over and laid a hand on Keith’s shoulder. 

“Fine, then,” Keith said. “Enough to absolve me of your anger?”

Kolivan didn’t look particularly angry to Shiro, at least not now. It seemed to have tempered into disappointment. Kolivan let out a deep sigh as he shifted to stand behind Keith now, wrapping his arms around him in a display that was so achingly intimate that Shiro felt wrong just looking at them. 

“You know why I ordered you to raid to the east?” Kolivan asked quietly. 

Keith’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Because we do every year—”

“Because it is safe,” Kolivan cut him off. “We know how to subjugate the lands to the east. We know their cities, their forts, their lines of defense. We know how to fight them.”

“And they know how to fight us…” Keith muttered under his breath. 

“But we don’t know what lies to the west, Keith,” Kolivan went on. “Even now, we don’t know enough. There is danger without knowing; without knowledge, there is death. What if you had not returned? What if a whole ship of warriors was lost, and we here in Marmora were left without husbands and wives and loved ones? You were lucky this once, but what if you are not so lucky again? What will you do, then?” He paused to press a kiss to the crown of Keith’s head, lowering his voice. “What will  _ I  _ do, then, without you?”

Keith’s expression softened, then turned sad. “You would find another wife, I presume.” 

“I would never.”

“You may have to.” 

“Legally,” Kolivan echoed yet again, with all the same disdain Keith had showed before. “But my heart is yours alone, husband. And so I must beg you, do not risk your life, nor the lives of my warriors, on dangerous gambles. All the gold and precious gems cannot compare to your lives.” He gently pried the jeweled goblet out of Keith’s hand and set it on the table, intertwining their fingers instead. “Promise me you will not go west again, Keith. Please.” 

Keith’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Not until I know more about it.” 

Kolivan sighed. “Keith…”

“I’ll take no more risks, I promise that.” Keith turned around in his arms, looping his own arms around the back of Kolivan’s neck. “The next time I go west, I will have an advantage.”

Kolivan did not look amused. “Which is?”

Keith grinned slyly. “I’ll tell you later. For now, though,” he rose up onto the balls of his feet, bringing his lips closer to the other man’s ears. “I am cold from such a long voyage at sea, and I ache for my husband’s company… won’t you warm me up?”

Kolivan’s stony expression smoothed into a smile. He chuckled lowly, drawing him closer. His hand came up to cradle his face, thumb stroking over the old scar slashed across Keith’s right cheek “Of course, my love.” 

Without another word to Shiro nor even a backwards glance at him, the two of them left, Keith tugging at Kolivan’s arm to drag him around the corner into a different room. Shiro dared not follow them. He might not have ever indulged in the desires of the flesh, but that didn’t mean he was ignorant of them, nor clueless as to what the rustles of clothing being shed or the giggling, soft words exchanged between the two might mean.

The walls of the house were thin, and Shiro had absolutely no desire to listen to what was escalating in the bedroom. He looked around the kitchen for a moment, then retreated out the door they had all come through before just as he heard a loud, pleasured cry that was unmistakably Keith’s voice. He shut the door quickly, face aflame, but that only muffled the sound a bit. Shiro hurried down the same corridor they had come from before, following it until he found himself in the large hall where the whole town had gathered. Thankfully, he was far enough away to escape those sinful sounds. 

He wandered through the hall, running his hand over the carved wooden tables and looking at the fur-strewn throne at the head of the hall. Embers glowed lowly in the hearths below huge iron cooking pots. This was undoubtedly where the pagans held feasts, he decided. 

Shiro warmed his hands over the glowing coals for a moment, then took a seat at one of the tables. He took the Gospel of St. John out of the folds of his robe and laid it on the table. The binding was creased like a scar from when Keith had handled it so roughly. 

_ “Of all the treasures I can see in this room, this is what you would save? It is worthless.” _

Shiro’s heart burned with anger at even the memory of those words. Not all treasures could be measured in silver and gold. But, he supposed, the Viking’s greed-blindness and subsequent dismissal of the book had led to him deciding, for whatever reason, to let Shiro keep the book. For that, he supposed he ought to be grateful. 

Opening the book carefully, Shiro began to read quietly to himself, seeking comfort in the familiar words of God’s teachings. He continued for some time, until a hand came down on his shoulder and startled him out of his thoughts. 

That big man from before – Antok, Shiro believed he was called – frowned down at him, his scar twisting his features. “What are you doing here, slave? You have no business being in the mead hall. Return to your master’s home at once.” 

“I was just… They, um, my… my master is…” Shiro hesitated, and when Antok’s frown deepened like he might strike him, he blurted out the words without care for how crass they sounded. “They were engaged in amorous activities. I thought it best to leave them to their privacy.”

The one eyebrow unmarred by his scar lifted, unamused. “So you came to the mead hall to sit uselessly?” 

Shiro wanted to argue that reading from the Bible was hardly ‘sitting uselessly’, but he had a feeling such an argument would be lost on the pagan. 

Antok hauled him up to his feet and drew a short seax from his belt, striking fear into Shiro’s heart. But he only used the blade to slice through the ropes still binding Shiro’s hands and tied loosely around his neck, letting them fall to the ground. “If you cannot bear to be in your master’s house while they are ‘engaged in amorous activities’ – like a child shy of his parents’ lovemaking – then you can do the washing out back. Get to it.” He pushed Shiro away from himself and stalked away.

Shiro rubbed his wrists where the rope had chafed them. “May I speak with Ulaz, please?” He asked.

Antok paused with his hand on the door and narrowed his eyes at the monk, suspicious. Then he shook his head. “You have no right to request to speak with anyone. You speak only when spoken to. Now get to work.” He fixed Shiro with one last steely look, then disappeared out the door. 

Frustration burned in Shiro; he had been born to a poor merchant family, and technically had taken vows of poverty when he became a monk, but he had been a free man. Never a powerful man, but a free man all the same. Shiro snatched up the book from the table, incensed. The cross tooled on the leather cover made him pause, though, and he ran his fingers over the etched lines. 

“If this is your way of teaching me humility,” he murmured quietly. “Then, Lord, could you have not done it in such a way as to kill by brothers?” 

No answer came, but he hardly expected it; God worked in mysterious ways. Shiro just hoped that His love and guidance could reach him and his remaining brothers in this strange and pagan land. Shiro sighed and tucked the book away in his robes again, then set off to find this washing he was to do.

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Shiro wandered around to the back of the large house and managed to locate a wooden basin filled with water, a washboard leaning nearby, with a length of rope stretched between two posts. A basket beside the wash basin held several rumpled articles of clothing. He had to assume this was the washing he was meant to attend to, so he rolled up his sleeves and got to work. The water was cold on his hands, but at least the activity gave him the chance to take his frustrations out on his captor’s clothing. What he wouldn’t give to put this much force behind punches and kicks to these people who had taken him, rather than washing dirt and blood out of their clothes. 

That thought made him pause, and his eyes fell closed as his expression shut down at the realization. The blood on these clothes, and swirling the water with the soap suds… it was the blood of his brothers, wasn’t it? He recognized at least some of these clothes as ones worn by the warriors who had ambushed the monastery. This was more than likely the blood of the monks who had been cut down like animals for slaughter. And here was Shiro, alive when they were dead, with their blood quite literally on his hands. 

A soft rustle of fabric nearby brought him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see a young woman bringing another basket of clothes over and joining him at the wash basin. Her dress was plain, and there was dirt on her cheek. Her eyes were dead with sadness, but the color was a brilliant emerald-green. Her hair, plaited in a simple braid down her back, was a bright, fiery red he had not seen the likes of on others in this town. 

Shiro finished hanging up the last shirt in his basket and looked toward the house. He didn’t have any desire to face his captors, especially if they were not yet done with their… activities. 

He turned to the girl. “May I help you with those?” He asked, pointing to her laundry. 

She blinked, startled out of her daze, and looked up at him uncomprehendingly. Shiro realized she must also be a slave captured from far away, and perhaps did not know the language of her captors. 

He tried again, in Latin, as it was the language that connected all Christian kingdoms. “ _ What language do you speak? _ ” 

The woman gasped, her face lighting up. “ _ Yes, yes, I speak the language of the holy text. How did you come to know it? _ ”

Shiro smiled, relieved. “ _ I was a monk in Northumbria. The Garrison monastery. And you? _ ” 

Her smile slipped.  _ “I was the daughter of an Irish king. My father allowed me much freedom to study the Bible and its teachings. But one day… the Northmen came and raided my home, and took me prisoner. Not these ones, but different ones. I know not where they came from. Eventually, I was sold to a merchant here. _ ” 

A princess, turned slave. Shiro could not believe it. “ _ I am so sorry, _ ” he said, voice heavy with emotion. “ _ The Lord works in mysterious ways, and we must be strong to endure the trials He sets us.” _

“ _ Indeed, _ ” her lips thinned with a sigh. “ _ But finding a kindred spirit in these hostile lands has given me hope. _ ” Her eyes flicked over to the side, where a Galran man had stopped and was watching them curiously.  _ “We should not appear idle. Come, _ ” she dropped back to her knees beside the basin, and made silent but exaggerated movements as if showing him how to do the washing. After a minute or so, the Galran man walked away, and they could both breathe a little easier. 

They did not speak much for the rest of their task for fear of attracting more attention, but Shiro felt a kinship with her regardless. When they finished, she said that she had best be getting back to her master’s house, and Shiro nodded in agreement. He started for the large building, but the woman stopped him. “ _ We are seldom permitted to enter their feasting hall unless we are serving food, _ ” she explained. “ _ That door there goes directly to your master’s house. It is connected to the hall, but they view it as separate _ .” 

“ _ Thank you _ .” He dipped his head in gratitude. “ _ And may God watch over you. _ ” 

They parted ways, and Shiro slipped through the door she had pointed him toward. It did indeed go directly into the kitchen he had been in before. He found Keith there, thankfully fully dressed, and Kolivan was nowhere in sight. 

“There you are,” Keith glanced at him. “Come on, we have these chickens to pluck and food to cook before the feast.”

“Yes sir,” Shiro set the empty laundry basket in the corner and joined him. Keith handed him a bowl full of oysters so fresh that they still smelled of the sea, and Shiro got to work on them. 

“You were talking to that girl out there,” Keith commented, and Shiro’s hands froze as fear swept over him. Would he be punished for speaking with someone? Or worse, would his having spoken to her bring punishment upon her? 

Keith didn’t seem angry, though, merely curious. “Is she from your homeland, then? None of us understand her speech.” 

“She is from Ireland. West of England,” Shiro said carefully. “They speak a different language there, not  _ Englisc _ . But we have both studied the Bible – the book of God – so we both understand the language it was written in, called Latin.” 

“So many languages you know…” Keith hummed, slicing the head off the plucked bird in one clean stroke. “Any others?” 

“A little Frankish… I spent some time in Francia, spreading the word of God,” Shiro said.

Keith snorted quietly, but the sound was not exactly unkind. “Is everything you do in service of your god?” 

Shiro looked at him. “Yes,” he said, as if it was obvious. “I am a monk.”

“Perhaps you would get along with our Seer, then,” Keith mused. “He, too, communes with the gods.” 

Shiro tried hard not to pull a face at the comparison. “I do not think I would, no.” 

Keith chuckled. “Maybe you’re right. His mind is open to all the gods, while yours is closed to all but your one.”

Shiro split open an oyster shell a bit more forcefully than was strictly necessary. “There  _ is _ only one.” 

“For you,” Keith said easily. 

Shiro took a deep breath to quell the urge to argue how wrong that was – how wrong  _ Keith  _ and his people were. He had to remember that he did not have as much power to speak his mind here. Antagonizing his captors would only serve to his detriment, not his benefit. 

Keith hummed thoughtfully as he prepared the chicken to be cooked. “I want to learn some of your language.  _ Englisc _ , you said? It seems unfair that you alone must make efforts to be understood here. I wish to try to understand you as well.” 

Shiro looked at him, surprised. That was an unexpected gesture of kindness. He was particularly glad now that he had not pursued an argument. 

He pointed to the chicken in Keith’s hands. “That is  _ cicen _ .”

“ _ Cicen _ ,” Keith echoed, carefully rolling the word on his tongue. 

“These are  _ sciellfisc _ ,” Shiro said, gesturing to the oysters he was preparing.

“ _ Sciellfisc _ ,” Keith repeated. He wiped the chicken’s blood off his hands and reached for the loaf of bread that was sitting nearby on the table. “And what is this?”

“ _ Hlaf _ ,” Shiro replied.

“ _ Hlaf _ ,” Keith flashed him a sly grin and tore off a chunk of the bread, then broke it into two pieces and handed one to Shiro, popping the other into his mouth. “Sneaky  _ hlaf _ , before dinner,” he said.

Shiro chuckled as he accepted the bread. For a moment, it reminded him of breaking bread with his brothers at the monastery. Strange that such a custom could stretch to two very different lands across the ocean.

Keith set the loaf of bread down again and picked up his knife again, resuming preparing the chicken. “Will you teach me more?” 

Shiro nodded with a smile and reached for a wooden cup of water, speaking slowly as he tapped first the cup and then pointed to the liquid inside. “ _ Þes is canne. Þes is wæter _ .” 

Keith’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Does ‘ _ þes is’  _ mean ‘this is’?” He asked.

“Very good,” Shiro nodded. 

“ _ Þes is canne. Þes is wæter _ ,” Keith tried, tripping over the words only a little.

They continued to exchange words and short phrases while they cooked, and Shiro found himself enjoying himself for the first time since he had come here. After they had run out of words for the food and cooking utensils at hand, Shiro moved on to the parts of the building, such as the kitchen and house. 

“And what of your home?” Keith finally asked, after learning  _ hus  _ and  _ ham _ to describe house and home “There were no women or children in that castle we found you in, so I have to assume people go there rather than are raised there. Did you always live there?”

Shiro chuckled quietly at the idea that the simple monastery could be called a castle. “It is far from the grand nature of a castle. No kings live there, only monks. We call it a monastery. That one is— or, was, known as the Garrison monastery.” His heart sank a little as he recalled the flames consuming the building he had called home for many years. “You are right, no women or children live there. I was not born there, but rather in a small town which was ruled by the same king.”

“The king of  _ Englisc _ ?  _ Englisc _ -land?” Keith asked.

Shiro laughed a little, charmed by his innocent ignorance. “England has four kingdoms. The kingdom I was born in, and where you landed your ship, is called the Kingdom of Northumbria –  _ Norþanhymbra Rīċe _ .”

“ _ Norþanhymbra Rīċe _ …” Keith repeated the word as he had the food and cooking words. “What is the king’s name?”

Shiro paused to regard him curiously. “Why do you care so much?” 

“Your names all sound so interesting,” Keith replied smoothly. “So different from ours.”

“I suppose that is true,” Shiro acknowledged. “The kingdom of Northumbria is ruled by King Oswulf.  _ Cyning Oswulf _ .” 

“ _ Cyning Oswulf _ ,” Keith repeated. “ _ Norþanhymbra Rīċe _ .” He pointed to the chicken, then the oysters, then the loaf of bread. “ _ Cicen. Sciellfisc. Hlaf _ .” 

“You remember well,” Shiro nodded, impressed. 

“I have a good teacher,” Keith said. “And how do you say ‘friend’?” 

Shiro smiled. “ _ Freondscip _ .” 

“ _ Freondscip _ .” Keith returned his smile. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

The feast that night was a grand affair, the likes of which Shiro had never seen. The fires in the mead hall roared, cooking pigs on spits and keeping the revelers warm against the cool night air outside. Strong ale flowed freely, and it wasn’t long until people were dancing to the beat of clapping hands and boisterous songs. Kolivan watched the display with a rare smile gracing his lips. Keith was seated beside him, dressed in a rich red tunic with a fur-lined cloak over his shoulders, and his hair done in elaborate braids. Shiro and the other slaves were busy bringing out platter after platter of food, refilling ale cups, and tending to the fires and cooking meats, but even they got the chance to enjoy some of the food while they waited along the walls until they were next needed. Shiro sipped at his ale and watched two warriors (Hunk and Lance, he believed they were called) dancing a lively, foot-stamping sort of dance in the center of the hall while onlookers clapped and sang, and something about the scene reminded him of the feasts of his town in his youth, before he left them to go to the quiet of the monastery. He supposed that drunken revelry looked much the same, no matter where one went. 

The moon was high in the sky by the time the meal came to a close. People stumbled, arm-in-arm and still singing, back to their homes, while the slaves worked to clean up the hall and put out the fires. Shiro was sleepy from the long day and the ale warming his veins, but he didn’t mind the extra work. The last thing he was told to do was to take the bones left from the cooked meats and toss them to the pigs out back. He did so, then yawned as he trudged back to the house, opening the door that would take him back to the kitchen…

It was not the kitchen.

Shiro froze at the sight in front of him. Keith and Kolivan were both naked as the day they were born, their fine feast clothes strewn about the bed. Kolivan lay back against the pillows, hands encircling Keith’s hips, while Keith sat on top of him, riding him like a horse. Keith threw back his head, half-undone braids cascading down his back, and let out a moan that made something hot and unfamiliar coil deep in Shiro’s gut. Then Keith half-turned to look over his shoulder, and Shiro caught sight of the soft curve of his breasts, and saw that he had no manhood between his legs, and any coherent thought left Shiro’s brain at once.

“Close the door,” Kolivan’s voice cut through the haze like an iron sword. “You are letting in the cold.” 

Shiro realized he was still standing in the doorway, hand on the door, just staring at a scene he never, ever should have seen. Keith’s hips slowed their movement, and he tipped his chin up as he looked at Shiro with heat burning bright in his eyes. “Like what you see?” 

Shiro’s face burst into flames so hot they might be Hellfire itself, and he quickly stepped back and shut the door. He thought he heard laughter behind him as he strode away, but whether it was Keith or the Devil himself, he didn’t know. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Keith enjoyed the feast, he always did. He laughed and talked with his mother, who had been out hunting when he had returned from his trip and who was delighted to find him home when she herself had returned in the afternoon. She had even sat him down before the feast and insisted on braiding his hair while he told her about the things he had seen on his voyage, so his hair was intricately plaited and draped over his left shoulder for the feast. He ate and drank to his heart’s content, his belly full and blood singing happily after their long, hard weeks at sea, and he felt a sense of contentment and pride as he watched his warriors indulge themselves in the same way. They had worked hard and fought well, and they deserved to have a night of fun. 

After Kolivan called for an end to the feast and bid them all a good night with all the blessings of the gods, though, Keith felt his sleepy contentment grow into excitement. It had been a very long sea voyage indeed, and he had missed the warmth of his husband’s body against his. He took him by the arm as soon as he was able and ushered him back to their bedroom. 

“Eager to sleep, my love?” Kolivan teased him. 

“I have no plans to sleep, not yet,” Keith tugged him down onto the bed, then rolled them until he was lying on top of the larger man. He pushed aside the furs of his cloak and ran his hand down his broad chest, feeling the heat even through his tunic. “I  _ ache  _ for you, husband,” he whispered against his lips. “My belly may be full of food and drink, but my core is empty and aching without you.” 

Kolivan hummed, pleased, and slid his hands up the back of Keith’s tunic. “Did I leave you unsatisfied before?” 

“Satisfied, yes,” Keith straddled his husband’s waist and let out a soft moan at feeling the solid heat between his legs. He looked down at the man under him, eyes lidded and smile teasing. “But never sated.” 

Kolivan guided him down for another kiss, slow and messy and still tasting of ale. “I have missed your lips.” He reached down to tug at the laces of Keith’s breeches, working them open enough to slide his hand in and brush through densely-curled hair guarding folds already wet with desire. He smirked into the kiss. “Both of them,” he added.

Keith snorted quietly at the joke and ground his hips onto the warm, calloused hand cupping him. “I want to feel your lips on mine,” he told him, voice dropping to a whisper. “And then, I want to ride you.” 

Kolivan let out a hum of agreement as Keith sat up. He tweaked the hot, hard nub of his cock once more before withdrawing his hand and reaching up to unpin the fur cloak, letting it fall from Keith’s shoulders. They made quick work of their clothes, trading kisses all the while, and when they were finally bare with skin glowing in the candle light, Kolivan tugged Keith up to settle with his knees folded to either side of Kolivan’s head, letting him breathe in the heady musk of his lover. He laid kisses to the inside of his thighs until Keith reached down to push his fingers through Kolivan’s hair, loosening the braid as he gripped the strands tight. “Do not tease me, Kolivan,” Keith told him. 

Kolivan blew a breath of cool air over Keith’s cunt, making him shiver, then guided his hips lower so he could taste him. Keith let out a soft, moan-strangled  _ “oh!”  _ as he began to lick and suck in earnest. He speared his tongue inside his hole, left teasing nips at the soft crease of his thigh, and lapped kittenishly at his swollen cock while thrusting two fingers slowly into him. Keith’s walls parted easily for him, still loose from their earlier lovemaking, but he moaned as if it was the first time. 

“K-Kolivan…” Keith gasped, hips grinding down on him to get more despite his next words. “Enough, enough; I’m so close.” 

Kolivan gave his cock one last suck and withdrew his fingers. Keith climbed off of him, boneless legs shaking like a fawn, and fetched the jar of oil from their bedside table. Kolivan poured a generous amount onto his fingers and slicked up his cock, a breathy groan escaping him at finally touching the aching length. Keith straddled his hips once more and Kolivan lined up his cock. Keith slid down, hands braced on the broad, hard chest below him as his hungry cunt swallowed his length whole, and moaned at the sensation of being so deliciously  _ full _ . 

Kolivan smoothed his palms up and down Keith’s thighs, relishing the feel of the strength coiled tight and dense in those muscles. Aside from the softness of his small breasts, which were heaving with each panting breath, every part of Keith’s body was hard with a warrior’s muscles, and Kolivan loved him for it. His husband-wife was so strong and lithe, and Kolivan had been in love with him since the first time they fought together in battle. 

Keith let himself adjust to the familiar girth inside him for a moment, hips grinding tiny circles to work him deeper. His eyes flicked up to meet Kolivan’s, and his heart melted at the love he saw there. Strong hands encircled his hips to steady him as he rose up on his knees until just the head was inside, then he snapped his hips down to bury the length in him once more with a moan. He set a quick pace not long after that, riding his husband hard and chasing his pleasure. The bed creaked under them and the room was full of gasping breaths, moans, and slick sounds coming from where they were joined together. The heat burning bright in his belly was even better than the ale that had warmed his blood, and he lost himself in the rhythm of his thrusts. He was so far gone that he didn’t notice the soft click behind him, nor the slight chill that stole into the room, until Kolivan spoke up.

“Close the door,” he said, and it was unexpected enough to startle Keith out of his hazy thoughts. He looked down at his husband to find him glaring at something behind Keith. “You are letting in the cold,” he said, tightening his hands around Keith’s hips. 

Keith slowed his thursts but didn’t stop while he half-turned to look over his shoulder. Shiro was standing there, half in the doorway, and staring at them like he had never before seen such a sight. Keith smirked at the awestruck look on his face. “Like what you see?” 

A blush to rival that of a just-born baby bloomed over his cheeks like fire, and Shiro quickly stumbled back outside and shut the door. 

Keith let out a quiet snort of a laugh at the priest’s expense, followed by a moan as Kolivan rolled his hips up to drive his length deep into Keith. 

In no time at all, they had resumed their previous pace, then surpassed it as they both grew more and more frenzied. Keith came with a cry, his body arched tight like a drawn bow. His cunt fluttered around Kolivan’s length, pulling out all of his husband’s seed as Kolivan too came with a low groan. 

Keith collapsed onto his husband’s chest, spent and boneless. Kolivan reached for one of the furs that had been pushed to the side of their bed during their lovemaking and used it to cover them both from the chill of the night air as they came down together. 

“Are you finally sated now?” Kolivan murmured near his ear, hand sweeping up and down the expanse of his back. 

Keith hummed, smiling. “For now.” 

The chest under his cheek rumbled as Kolivan chuckled. “I have missed you greatly, my heart. Such a long journey you went on… are you sure no one kept you company?”

Keith lifted his head to prop his chin in his hand, meeting Kolivan’s eyes. “No. I would have informed you. You know that.” He let his fingers trace mindless patterns over Kolivan’s chest. “And you? Did any others find their way into my bed in my absence?” 

Kolivan pulled a face. “Only your hound, despite my every effort to keep him at bay. He listens to no one but you.” 

Keith laughed. He could all too easily picture the wolf-dog continuously sneaking into Keith’s side of the bed in search of his master and Kolivan pushing him back to the floor with grumbling threats to put him outside. “Where is he, anyway?” 

“Your mother took him hunting. Perhaps he is still with her, or roaming the woods as he is prone to doing,” Kolivan said. “Why did you choose to keep the priest?”

The abrupt question took Keith aback, and he paused in his aimless mapping out of the chest in front of him to look at the other man. “You think I brought him back only to sleep with him?”

Kolivan regarded him evenly. “You’ve brought back slaves on other raids. But you have never kept them for yourself.”

“I think he will be useful,” Keith said. 

“You said that before,” Kolivan tightened his arm around Keith’s waist and hauled him further up the bed, until they were face to face. “You are scheming something, husband. Will you not tell me your plans?” He asked, voice dropped to a whisper. 

Keith flashed him a smile and snuggled closer, slotting his thigh between Kolivan’s. He lowered his voice as well, and slipped back into that thick dialect that was only spoken deep in the Marmora mountains, lest the priest be listening from the other room. “ _ When I next go west… _ ”

“ _ Keith… _ ” Kolivan sighed, disappointment heavy in his voice.

“ _ No, Kolivan, listen to me, _ ” Keith cut him off. “ _ There are far more riches to be gained in the west. We could make our people wealthy like they have never been before. But you are right – it is dangerous to go where we do not know the land. Even having been there, I do not know what lies outside of that monk’s-castle we raided. But, _ ” he tilted his head in the direction of the door leading to the kitchen, where he could see the flicker of a candle and hear the barely-audible murmur of foreign words as Shiro undoubtedly read to himself from his book of prayers. Keith went on, giving his husband a meaningful look. “ _ But, I now have someone who has lived his whole life in that land. Already he has taught me some of their language. I now know about the four kingdoms and their kings, and that not all villages are guarded by forts. The more I learn from him, the better prepared I will be for the next journey west, and the less risks we will need to take. _ ” 

Kolivan lifted his chin as he considered it. His gaze slid over to the door, then back to Keith. “ _ You think he will be so eager to share his knowledge with you, once he learns you will use it to raid his homeland? _ ”

Keith did fear that. He could already imagine the betrayal on Shiro’s face, like a horrible prophetic vision he did not wish would come to pass.

“ _ We should take great pains to ensure such word does not reach him, then _ .” Keith said. 

Kolivan hummed in agreement. His palm trailed lower under the furs, sliding over Keith’s backside. “ _ And is your quest for knowledge the only thing that led you to keep him? _ ” He asked, tone warming once more. “ _ Or have you other reasons, cunning wolf of a husband? _ ”

Keith propped his elbow up on the bed beside Kolivan’s head, leaning his head against his hand and looking down at him with a smile. “ _ I must admit I am curious about him. His culture, his strange beliefs…”  _

“ _ His plush lips, and how they might mold to yours? _ ” Kolivan supplied. “ _ His pretty eyes, and how they might look hazy with pleasure while you touch him? _ ” 

“ _ And what about you? _ ” Keith challenged. “ _ You, who brought up his plush lips and pretty eyes? Are you not attracted to him as well? _ ”

Kolivan snorted softly. “ _ I might give him a second glance if he were to wear something other than that shapeless dress of a robe and grow out his hair from that silly short cut. He looks like a babe whose hair has not yet fully come in. _ ” 

“ _ I am beginning to grow fond of it, _ ” Keith hummed, although he too had found the look strange at first. “ _ But you know my heart is yours alone. I would do nothing without you. _ ”

“ _ As would I. _ ” Kolivan patted the small of his back. “ _ Alright, I will try. Go and fetch your toy, then. _ ” 

Keith grinned and leaned down to kiss his husband, then rolled off the bed and drew one of the fur pelts around his shoulders like a cape. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Shiro had not many places to seek solace, after witnessing such a sinful act. He tried to hide himself in the mead hall so as to distance himself from the couple as much as possible, but was chased out by the few remaining housecarls sharing one last drink around the fire. He had no desire to return to the jarl’s house, but he had even less desire to find out what might happen to a lone slave wandering the streets of the town at night, so he reluctantly crept back to the kitchen (double-checking to make sure it was the correct door this time). They seemed to have finished, thank the Lord, but Shiro could hear the soft sound of them murmuring in voices too quiet to make out the words. He curled up in the furthest corner of the kitchen, beside the hearth, and pulled the book out of its hiding place. If he could not physically distance himself from such sin, then he would just have to seek solace in the word of God. He opened the book and murmured the familiar Latin words to himself, but he still couldn’t drive that image out of his mind. 

He didn’t know where to even begin to make sense of what he had seen. For the briefest of moments, he had not even known what he was looking at was two beings engaged in intercourse, because that… that  _ position _ , that was simply unheard of. He might not be very well-versed in such matters, but he knew that was not how a man and woman joined themselves together, with the man underneath and the woman bouncing on top as if on horseback. And that was another thing! He had thought Keith was a man, but that was most definitely a woman’s body. It made sense now, why they had said Keith was the jarl’s wife. But how could a woman fight so fiercely, and wear trousers, and speak so equally with men, and haul Shiro and the other captive monks around by the arm so bodily and with such strength??

Shiro froze as something dreadful occurred to him. When he joined the monastery, he had vowed to never touch a woman. And yet Keith had touched him dozens if not nearly a hundred times – throwing him to the ground, tying his hands together, hauling him around by the arm, clapping him on the back while they exchanged friendly words at the feast… he had even  _ hugged  _ him after Shiro praised his drunken attempts to recall a few English words. 

Shiro’s eyes fell shut. “ _ Oh Lord, forgive me, for I was ignorant of my own sin… _ ” He murmured several prayers of penance and thanked God for not striking him down the moment his vows had been broken. 

“Shiro.” A voice broke him out of his thoughts. “Hey, Shiro.” 

He opened his eyes and looked over, and at once wished he hadn’t. The bedroom door was open now. He could see Kolivan propped up in the wide bed with only a quilt thrown over his lap to cover his modesty, watching Shiro like one might a particularly intriguing animal. In the doorway, though, stood Keith, covered only by a furred pelt like a cloak about the shoulders, which did next to nothing to cover the dip between those breasts or the patch of hair between the legs.

Keith smiled at him and beckoned him toward the bedroom with a jerk of the head. “Come and join us.” The words were warm, an invitation rather than an order. 

Shiro stared, aghast. “I cannot. I have taken vows of celibacy.” 

Keith and Kolivan exchanged a confused look at the word. Shiro almost wanted to laugh in hysteria; of course these heathens would not know the meaning of such a word.

“I cannot have sex. It is forbidden, for members of the Church,” he explained. “We dedicate our lives and bodies to God. It is forbidden to have sex.”

“Who would know?” Keith asked. “We won’t tell.”

“God would know,” Shiro said, as if it were obvious. “He is everywhere, and sees everything.”

“Can your god not look the other way, for one night?” Kolivan asked. “Let Freyja watch over you instead; love and sex are her realm, and she is not afraid to let her followers enjoy their bodies.” 

Shiro recoiled at the very thought. He could never renounce his faith for something so hedonistic!

“I have never had sex. And I never will.” He looked from Keith to Kolivan and back. The husband and the wife. He shook his head. “And even if I could, I would not do so with you. It would be a sin.” 

“Why?” Keith tilted his head, curious. “We asked. So long as all are in agreement, what is the problem?” 

“Because—” Shiro broke off, struggling to explain without knowing the word for ‘adultery’ in this coarse Galran tongue. Did these heathens even have such a concept? He released a terse breath and tried again. “It is a sin to… to have such relations, with someone who is married.” 

Keith and Kolivan exchanged a confused look. “Is it still wrong, if both married parties are present?” Kolivan asked. 

Keith nodded like that was a perfectly logical point, then looked back at Shiro expectantly. 

Shiro gaped at them. “But… how… three people cannot…” he trailed off, face aflame. 

Kolivan laughed and Keith snickered. “Three people can,” the jarl said. 

“They cannot.” Shiro frowned. It simply wasn’t done. Not where he was from. 

“They can,” Keith smirked and stepped closer, dropping to a crouch in front of where Shiro sat. The firelight flickered in the nearby hearth, casting a warm orange glow over Keith’s hair and skin and only intensifying the heat burning in those eyes. “Want us to show you?” 

Shiro’s gaze felt riveted on the gap of skin peeking out between the fur draped over Keith’s shoulders – the shadow between the breasts – but he forced himself to look away, down toward his own knees and the book balanced on top of them. “I have taken vows of celibacy,” he said again, but the words felt hollow. “I cannot touch a woman.” 

There was a moment of silence, the only sound the pop of an ember in the hearth nearby. Suddenly, a sharp pain burst at the front of his head as a hand seized him by his long bangs and yanked his head back, fingers fisted tight in the strands. He pried his eyes open against the pain and found Keith looking at him with such rage that it made his heart skip with fear. 

“Know this, Shiro of Garrison, and remember it well,” Keith told him lowly. “I may be the jarl’s wife by law, but I am first and foremost his husband and this town’s most accomplished warrior. I have fought in more battles than you could conjure in your worst nightmares. I have sailed across seas no one has ever sailed before. I took your whole temple and all its treasures and gutted your brothers as easily as gutting a fish. I am a man, and you will address me as such, or you will lose the ability to address anyone ever again after I cut out your tongue. Do I make myself clear?” 

“Yes,” Shiro gasped, desperate to escape the pain but also still very confused. 

Keith’s eyes narrowed. “Yes what?”

“Yes, sir,” Shiro tried again. 

“Good.” Keith released him and stood back up. The way he looked down at him reminded Shiro distinctly of the first moment they met, when Keith had been about to plunge a sword through him without a second thought. He had the same cold look in his eyes now. “I don’t sleep with anyone who doesn’t view me as a man. Remember that,” Keith told him, then turned and went back to the bedroom without another word. 

Shiro rubbed his aching head and wondered if that was a threat or a promise.

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Shiro let the matter drop, but he couldn’t help but keep thinking about it. He grappled with the pronouns in his mind – she or he or they or nothing? He slipped up only once, on a cold morning when he caught sight of the swell of breasts under a simple linen shirt as Keith yawned and stumbled into the kitchen with a sleepy order for Shiro to fetch breakfast. A thoughtless “yes, ma’am” slipped out of him, and was followed up by a swift and hard bat upside the head as Keith glared at him with fire in his eyes. The strike was only a warning; hard enough to sting, but not enough to damage. Just enough to drive the message into his brain. 

He became much more careful after that, but remained still no less confused. It definitely didn’t help that Kolivan continued to call Keith both husband and wife, seemingly at random. The way he addressed him–her? ...Keith, though, was always masculine, as was the way Keith replied. His–her– _ Keith’s _ manner of speaking and holding themselves (?) was also always distinctly masculine. Yet the glimpses Shiro tried so hard not to catch of Keith – when ordered to bring water for a bath, or when accidentally walking in on the jarl’s bedroom – always revealed the body of a woman. 

It took several days before Shiro finally broke down, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Keith, may I ask a question? I truly don’t mean any disrespect, I swear to you. I simply don’t understand, and I want to.” 

Keith looked up from his breakfast, blinking. “I will bear that in mind. Ask your question.” 

Shiro took a deep breath. “I just… I don’t understand how a man can have the body of a woman.”

Keith’s expression went sour and hard at once, but thankfully, he didn’t react with anger. “I’ll forgive your ignorance this once, since you said you wish to understand.” He let out a terse sigh through his nose and looked away, hand waving in a loose, careless gesture. “What is a woman, and what is a man?” After a pause and look back at Shiro, he arched an eyebrow at the monk. “That wasn’t rhetorical. What do you believe is the difference between a woman and a man?” 

What kind of a question was that? Wasn’t it obvious? But Shiro remembered he was in a strange land with strange people who had other, strange beliefs. He nodded to himself and explained it as plainly as he could. “Man was created in God’s image, molded by the Creator Himself from clay. The first man was called Adam, and God created the first woman – Eve – from a piece of Adam’s rib.” 

Keith tilted his head to the side and stared at him uncomprehendingly, his brow furrowing and lips quirking in a tentative, uncomfortable sort of smile – the sort of smile an adult might give while trying to parse out a toddler’s babble. Shiro realized that, while his words may have been Galran, the true meaning of them must have been lost on the pagan.

He had to think hard about how to explain it outside of religion… even though religion could explain everything. “Well… men have souls, and women do not.” That was why women need to marry a man or join a convent as a nun, so that they could go to heaven when they died.

Keith waved him off dismissively. “Again with the ‘souls’... Even putting aside that we don’t have such a concept, you have already said that anyone who does not worship your god forfeits their soul. So then we are all women here, and it matters not.” 

“No, that—” Shiro sighed, frustrated with himself and the cultural barrier between them. As if anyone could look at Kolivan or Antok or most of these other warriors, and call them women. “Men… men provide for their families. And women take care of the children and home.” 

Keith tilted his head, looking puzzled by that. “Is caring for the family not the same as providing for the family?” 

“In the manner they do it, yes,” Shiro said, although the question made him pause for a moment and consider it. “Men hunt, and fish, and work their trades. They are the ones who go off to war. Women bear children and take care of the home, doing the washing and the cooking.” 

Keith frowned, confused. “Hunting and fishing are a part of cooking, are they not? Otherwise you would have nothing to cook. And why can women not go off to war?” 

“Because… because…” Shiro had to think about it. Why was that? It was simply the way of the world. “Because they are needed at home, with the children.” 

“Oh, I see,” Keith nodded, and Shiro thought he was getting through until his next words. “Right, so they can defend their home from invaders while the husband is away.” 

Defend–? “They… no, they can’t do that,” Shiro sputtered. “Women cannot fight.” 

Keith arched an eyebrow at him. “Need I remind you,” he said evenly. “That it was our fearless shield-maiden Pidge – a  _ woman  _ – who pulled your man-ass out of hiding and threw you to the ground like a sack of quivering fish?”

Shiro released a tense sigh through his nose. He remembered that perfectly well, thank you, and it was part of what was confusing him so much. “I am only trying to explain the difference between men and women.”

“In your culture,” Keith pointed out. “But here, there is little difference between men and women. On a farmstead, everyone in the family works the fields. In a blacksmith’s shop, his children help run the smith – daughter or son, it matters not. If a man tears his clothes, he gets a needle and thread and sews them, rather than handing them off to his wife, because  _ he  _ did the damage. And when it comes to battle, one spouse goes to fight, one stays to defend the home from invaders, and  _ both  _ are trained in the ways of battle.” He stood up from his seat and leaned over the table to look down at Shiro. “And  _ no one  _ is made of clay or rib bones. We are humans, not dolls.” 

Shiro tightened his lips at the intentional dig at his beliefs. 

Keith snorted softly, seeing right through him. “Have you no  _ real _ , actual facts that separate women and men? Or only narrow-minded stories from your silly book?” 

Shiro swallowed. There was…  _ one  _ more, but…. 

He took a deep breath and tried his best not to sound crude. “Women… women have a… a space in them, that can be filled. And men… have a part to… to fill it.” He could feel that his entire face was burning as he said it, like the flames of Hell licking at him for uttering words of such a sinful topic. 

Keith stared at him for several moments, then burst out laughing so hard he fell back onto his stool, clutching his stomach and slamming his fist on the table top. “You speak of sex as if you are a child, little priest!” He laughed uproariously.

Shiro stared at him, completely flabbergasted by both the display and the implication that Shiro was in any way ‘little’ compared to Keith (he had  _ at least  _ a head’s height on him!) 

Keith managed to contain his laughter, save for a few last snorts and giggles. “If that is the only difference you can see, then you have  _ much  _ to learn in the bedroom.”

“I don’t have anything to learn about the bedroom!” Shiro bristled. “I am a  _ monk _ , I have taken vows of celibacy.” He huffed, incensed. “That you people regard the union of a married man and wife so carelessly and frivolously and– and  _ frequently  _ – is... is...”

“Is what?” Keith asked with a razor-sharp glint in his eye. “ _ Barbaric _ ?” 

Shiro snapped his mouth shut before he could agree that yes, it was. 

Keith snorted. “That you prohibit your priests from engaging in the earthly pleasures of food and drink and sex – pleasures given to us  _ by the gods,  _ no less – is, to us, barbaric. Not to mention wasteful of the gods’ gifts. If your god did not want you to have sex, why would he have made it a necessary part of creating more life, hm?”

“Necessary, yes,” Shiro agreed tightly. “But only to bring children.” 

"Then why make it so pleasurable?” Keith challenged. 

“As a temptation,” Shiro said. He may not have ever experienced the so-called pleasures of sex, but he at least knew this from his teachings. “Lust was planted in us as a sin to overcome.”

Keith scoffed. “You said your god was not a trickster god… and yet he tricks people by offering pleasures in one hand and forcing you to deny them with the other?”

Shiro opened his mouth, but no argument came. His mind whirled, trying to fix on some passage or teaching of the Bible to offer as evidence, but… he could think of nothing.

Keith eyed him a moment longer, and when it was obvious Shiro would not be speaking up again, he let out a satisfied  _ hmph.  _ “Sex is an activity, Shiro. It feels good, that is all. Children are a blessing that comes from it, yes, but they are not the sole function of it.” 

Shiro didn’t know how to respond to that. It ran contrary to his beliefs, so deeply that he didn’t know what to make of it.

Keith snorted quietly and got to his feet. “To return to your original question, I am a man because I say I am. I am also legally the wife of the jarl, but that is only a title. I am a man – my husband knows that, my household knows that, my people know that. If you cannot respect that, then there is no place for you here. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Shiro looked down.

“Good.” Keith thrust the plate and cup at Shiro, who had no choice but to take them lest they fall. “Now, you are going to wash the dishes, not because you are a woman or a man but because you are a slave and it needs to be done. And I am going to go fishing, because the only way what is between my legs would have any bearing on such an activity would be if I was dangling my cock in the water as bait, which I assure you I am not.”

Shiro’s mouth fell open in utter shock at such crude words, and Keith had the gall to actually laugh at him and pat his cheek condescendingly before grabbing his spear and net and heading down to the shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, please remember that Shiro’s not trying to be an asshole. He’s just running into a lot of concepts and ideas that he has never seen before and learning how to come to terms with things that run against the grain of his beliefs. One of the parts of “Vikings” I find most fascinating is how Ragnar and Athelstan are both so firm in their beliefs and incredulous when they first encounter someone who thinks different, but grow to accept and even enjoy such differences later. Like when Athelstan has been with them for, what, a couple weeks? (Based on how much his hair grew back) and he’s already asking questions and listening wide-eyed with wonder as they tell him the Norse creation myths. I love that “learning from each other and expanding your worldview” kinda shit. 
> 
> So yeah, give Shiro a second. He’ll get there.
> 
> And now, ladies and men and non-binary friends, it is time for Viking Gender/Sexuality History time with ya resident history nerd, me! (Feel free to skip this if you’re just here for the story.) 
> 
> So in pre-Christian Scandinavian (Norse) culture, homosexuality was fine _within limits_. Having children was a Big Important Part of your life that everyone had to do, so as long as a man eventually settled down with a woman and had children, and wasn’t too in-your-face with his male partners, it was fine. If he ignored his wife in order to only sleep with his male partners, though, she could divorce him. And gay sex was only okay for the one doing the penetrating; being penetrated was a HUGE no-no (and in fact one of the worst insults was to be called “ _sordinn_ ”, or “penetrated”... getting called that meant fighting to the death to reclaim your honor). Not entirely sure how they worked that arrangement out given that _someone_ would have to take the dick, but the sagas don’t really get into that. Oh and of course ya gotta have that sweet patriarchal double-standard – women weren’t supposed to sleep with other women, and in fact there’s no record of it in the sagas (Probably because they were all recorded by men…) 
> 
> There’s also not really any record of what we might now think of as transgender individuals, beyond the god Loki (and once, Odin) turning into women and back (and on a somewhat-similar note, Thor cross-dressed as his own mother in bridal garb to sneak into Jötunheimer and steal back his hammer). That’s not to say that transgender people didn’t exist, just that there isn’t any known concrete evidence (which is unfortunately rather common, where Norse customs are concerned… product of not writing things down as much as other parts of Europe… we also don’t know exactly when/how they celebrated certain festivals) There _have_ been a few graves that have been excavated where it was assumed the individual was a man based on the arrangement of burial goods/weapons, only to later learn (with the invention of radio-carbon testing techniques) that the skeletal remains were in fact female, but there’s no way to know if they were just women warriors or individuals who were biologically female but lived as men. Some women did fight, though, and shield-maiden was a respectful title. The sagas are full of plenty of legendary shield-maidens (granted, bad things usually happen to them… because men recorded the sagas centuries later after Christianity influenced their views and HOW DARE a woman be the center of the story!) While they definitely had their own problems, Pre-Christian Scandinavia was remarkably ahead of the times, especially compared to England. Granted, they weren’t _quite_ as egalitarian as I’ve described here, but… it’s a freaking AU featuring originally-alien characters and inspired by a TV series, give me a break.
> 
> Also, fun fact: the word “cunt” originally came from Old Norse (“kunta”). The meaning has stayed the same since then. Unlike with “thing” which referred to an assembly of free men, and now just refers to, like, objects or abstract concepts or really anything (ha, anyTHING). Language fun!
> 
> If you made it to the end of this author’s note, oh my goodness thank you for your patience. I _promise_ not to info-dump in every note in the future. There was just a lot of background knowledge that influenced how I went about writing this chapter in particular.


	3. Oriande

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-specific trigger warning for mentions of blood in regards to ritual sacrifice** (being splashed with a bit, and one instance of a character cutting their palm). I guess if you’re squeamish tread lightly in the first part of this chapter.
> 
> Speaking of blood, warning for period sex (cunnilingis) in part 3. I don’t think it’s graphic, but I can handle a bit of blood so who knows. Also a warning for discussion of pregnancy scare in part 1, if you are especially sensitive to that.
> 
> And full disclosure, I based Oriande heavily on the Uppsala in “Vikings” season 1 episode 8 (mostly in terms of location, interior, and Lotor’s libation), with some liberties taken (swapping in Freyja for Freyr, and a couple of words in the prayer) rather than the real temple at Gamla Uppsala. Cuz Adam of Bremen was a lil bitch when he wrote about it in 1075 and said the songs and incantations were “unseemly” and “it is best not to speak of them”, which didn’t give me a lot to work with.

The journey to the Temple of Oriande was a long and treacherous one, as the temple was located deep in the wildlands and the only path went over several mountains. Generally, they only undertook the journey once every nine years for the spring festival where they would give thanks to the gods, make their sacrifices, and celebrate while basking in the raw power that the sacred lands exuded. Going there alone was nearly unheard of. But Keith needed to make the journey now, and could not wait until the regular pilgrimage. If what he feared had happened had indeed happened, then it would be far too late. 

After a full day and night of traveling through the mountains on foot and braving the steep climb up to the temple, he finally made it. The banners for the festival that he was used to seeing were all put away, but the strings of bones from years of sacrifices remained all year round, clinking hollowly as they swayed in the breeze. He shouldered his pack and went up to the carved wooden door to the temple, knocking three times. It took a minute for someone to answer it, as he was unexpected, and the look Lotor gave him when he opened the door told him that his presence here was unappreciated as well.

“Keith, wife of jarl Kolivan,” the priest of Odin looked down his nose at him. “What brings you here? Surely even you can tell that summer is fading fast and it is far from festival time.” 

“I need to speak with Allura,” Keith told him. 

Lotor gave him a long, piercing look, and Keith felt that the Seer could look straight through him. Finally, he shrugged and stepped aside, opening the door. 

Keith stepped over the threshold and into the wooden temple. At the far end of the temple stood an enormous, carved wooden statue of Odin, surrounded by a pool of water and accessible only by a path of stepping stones. Off to the sides of the temple, in two wings of their own, were similar statues of Freyja and Thor, although they lacked pools of water. 

Before Keith could make his way over to any of the statues, though, Lotor held up his hand to stop him. He walked over to a bowl sitting on an altar against the wall and picked it up, along with a small bundle of twigs. Lotor brought both items back over to Keith and stood before him, holding the bowl – filled with the blood of that morning’s sacrifice – aloft at about chin height. 

“Hail to the Æsir and the Vanir,” Lotor intoned. “Hail to the gods and goddesses. Hail to Odin, Thor and Freyja. Hail to Váli, Sif, and Heimdallr…” As he spoke, he lowered the bowl and dipped the ends of the twigs into the blood, swirling the liquid. “Hail to Baldr, Bragí, and Eir. Hail to Freyr, Loki, and Frigg…” 

Lotor lifted the twigs, blood dripping from the ends, and flicked them in Keith’s direction, splattering droplets of acrid, iron-scented red across his face. Keith did not even flinch, nor did he bother closing his eyes; it was little different than what he faced in battle. 

Lotor walked around to the back of him with slow, deliberate steps. “Hail to Hlín and Mímir. Hail to Njörðr, Rán, and Týr.” Another soft  _ whsh  _ as the twigs flicked through the air, and Keith felt more droplets land on the back of his neck. Lotor continued, closing a circle around him. “Hail to Odin’s spear, Thor’s hammer. Hail to the mighty and fertile Earth. All hail.”

“All hail,” Keith repeated.

Without another word to Keith, Lotor walked away. Keith had never been sure if Lotor disliked him specifically or was just aloof in general, but he didn’t let it bother him. He had bigger things to worry about. 

Keith made his way over to the wing of the temple housing the wooden statue of Freyja. Seated below the statue, sitting cross-legged on the ground facing her patron goddess, was Allura, the head priestess of Oriande. Unlike Lotor, who had been born in a distant part of the kingdom and whom Keith had never met before his first pilgrimage to Oriande, Allura had once been the Seer of Marmora before being selected by the previous head priestess to join the temple at Oriande. Her hair was silver as starlight and her eyes were white with blindness, but she was not an old woman; she had bore both since her birth, and they were considered marks of her power. It was not uncommon for Seers to be blind, for the things they could See could not be seen with eyes alone. 

Keith stopped a short distance from her and hesitated, not wanting to disturb her if she was communing with the gods. He didn’t speak nor announce his name, but somehow the blind Seer still knew it was him. 

“Keith, son of Krolia.” Allura’s sightless eyes opened and she turned her face toward him with a smile. She got to her feet and came toward him, and her expression grew sober. “You are troubled. What is wrong?” 

“I have been having unsettling dreams,” Keith explained. “Dreams of my family growing larger. I could not tell who, or what, it might be. I only felt an unusual sense of warmth and happiness, and a presence of  _ more  _ in my home. More food on the table, more bodies huddled around the hearth and making the nights warm even in the winter. But I could not tell if it was a… I could not tell what it was.” 

Allura tilted her chin, sightless eyes boring into his. “That sounds far from ‘unsettling’, Keith.” 

“Allura,” Keith lowered his voice, quiet and pained. “I cannot be with child. I know it should be a blessing, but for me it would be a curse. Please, I need your help.”

She studied him carefully for a moment. “When did you last lay with your husband?” 

“Four days ago,” Keith replied. Across the room, he saw Lotor cast a distasteful look in his direction, but he paid him no mind. He knew Lotor was one of the few who regarded him with contempt for lying with another man. Keith ignored him. “The dreams started the next night.”

“And when did you last bleed?” Allura asked. 

Keith’s jaw tightened and his lips pressed into a thin line. “Three full moons ago.” If he was lucky, he only bled during the winter months, when the snow and cold kept him from being active enough to chase it away. “It never happens regularly enough to be reliable, though. And if I wait for it to return… it might be too late, then.” 

Allura hummed thoughtfully. She reached out, and her fingertips touched his forehead. He held still. Her fingers lingered on his brow for a few moments, then trailed down. Down his nose, his lips, his chin – fingers leaving a trail of red as they dragged through the sacrificial blood still splattered across his face – then down his neck, over his collarbone, before her palm pressed over his heart. He could feel the heat of her hand even through his shirt and the leather jerkin he wore underneath, even when he was not in battle, to help keep him as flat as possible. 

After a long moment, she moved her hand lower, trailing down his chest and stomach and finally settling over his lower belly. She remained there for a long time before withdrawing her hand. “The gods’ gift to you – that which is a curse to so many others – still holds true. Your womb is as barren and cold as Nilfheim. You are not with child in this moment.” 

“But the dreams?” Keith asked.

“They may still come to pass,” Allura said. “But perhaps not in the way you expect.”

“In what way, then?” Keith pressed. 

“I cannot say.” Allura shook her head. “That much is still concealed by mist, and may remain unclear for some time. What may or may not happen is, at this moment, still undecided. Too many factors can alter the outcome as easily as the wind changes directions. You will have to wait.”

Keith was quiet as he thought about it. He took a deep breath, and his next words came out quiet and desperate. “I just need to know… will it be a child?” 

Allura gave him a long, careful look, her sightless eyes taking in things he could never see with his own eyes. “I See no children in your future, Keith. But there is something else there.” She reached out again and laid a hand over his heart. “Your womb is empty and barren. But your heart… your heart is fuller than it was before. Something in you – in your life – has changed. But it does not take the form of a child, as far as I can See.” 

A sense of relief swept over him, and Keith released a shaky breath that felt like it had been held in his chest for far too long. 

Allura took his face in her hands and kissed his forehead, heedless of the sacrificial blood that had grown tacky and cold on his skin. “I know why you hold this fear. But worry not – you will not be taken from the battlefield until it is time for you to make your way to Valhalla. You are destined to be a great warrior, Keith; Odin claimed you at your birth, for your first cry matched that of a raven outside your window. I remember it well.” Her hands slid from his face to rest on his shoulders. “Thank the gods for their gifts, and then return home. Though you may not See your future, you have nothing to fear.” 

She released him and held out her left hand, palm facing up. Keith took her hand in his and bent down to kiss her palm as thanks for her counsel. She left after that, disappearing into the hidden depths of the temple that were off-limits to all but the priests and priestesses, and Keith was left alone.

He looked up at the carved wooden statue of Freyja, her arms encircled in front of her. It – along with the others of Odin and Thor – was a simple wooden effigy, for human hands could never hope to capture the true likeness of the gods and goddesses, but he could feel the power in the statues regardless. 

Keith stepped forward and laid a hand on the statue. It was so tall that his hand came only to her knee, and he felt like a young child clutching at his mother’s dress. 

“I am grateful to bear the curse that others might fear, for in my hands it is a gift that enables me to live as I am,” Keith whispered. “Please accept the sacrifice I will offer you, and continue to watch over me and my people.” 

The temple was empty and quiet, the only sound coming from the quiet clink of hollow bones blowing in the breeze outside. Both Allura and Lotor had disappeared, but someone (Lotor, probably, for as much as he despised Keith he was still a diligent priest of Odin) had left out an empty gilt bowl and an iron dagger on the center altar. Keith stood behind the altar and looked up at the statue of Odin, his one wooden eye staring straight ahead of him above Keith. 

Keith took the dagger in his hand and dragged it across his palm. It hurt, but he did not flinch from the pain – he had felt far worse before. 

“Odin, all-father,” Keith squeezed his hand over the bowl and let a few drops of blood fall into it, red splattering against the gold before welling at the bottom like rubies. “I ask for your wisdom and protection on the battlefield.” He squeezed his hand again, and more drops fell. “Thor, mighty guardian of Midgard, I ask for you to bless my people and their crops, and keep our town safe from famine and sickness.” He took a deep breath and went on. “Freyja, keeper of life and of death, I ask you to empty my belly of life and bestow it on those who wish for sons and daughters. Cast their barrenness onto me and let me continue to live as a warrior. Do with me as you will in death – let Odin take me to Valhalla, or take me with you to Fólkvagnr as payment for your blessings – but I beg of you, let me live my life as the man I am.” 

The temple remained quiet, the three deities looking over him in silence. Keith cleaned the knife and set it beside the bowl, then left the temple. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

He spent the night in the forest, only a stone’s throw from the temple itself. The earth was rich here and the tall, strong trees that grew on the temple’s mountain top provided shelter from the wind. He washed the cut on his hand in the cold, clear stream that babbled nearby, then bandaged it and set up his tent in the same little grove he had during the last nine-years spring festival, when their whole village came to pay homage to the gods. The temple grounds were filled with revelry and laughter then, but they were quiet now, save for the call of birds and the hollow clink of strings of bones swaying in the breeze like ghostly wind-chimes. He saw no sign of either the head priest nor head priestess all night. At daybreak, he broke fast with a simple meal of bread and smoked jerky, then packed up his bedroll and tent and set off down the mountain once more.

The journey back was largely downhill, making his trip shorter than the way out. A half-day’s hike from Marmora, he stopped to catch some fish, and upon spotting a bramble of sweet blackberries, he picked a few handfuls and wrapped them up carefully in a cloth. He hoped they would serve as a nice offering of thanks for Kolivan and his mother for managing the household while he was away. 

With the fair weather on his side, he managed to return around midday the day after he had left the temple of Oriande, and returned to find everyone immersed in their daily duties. He spotted a familiar half-shaved head of black and white toiling in the fields behind the jarl’s house, but was surprised to find him wearing a loose shirt and trousers, rather than the robes he had worn before. 

Shiro looked up when Keith approached. “Welcome back. How was your journey?” 

“It went well.” Keith eyed the twisting vines and floral pattern embroidered along the collar of the tunic. He recognized his mother’s handiwork and knew that was a shirt from his own wardrobe. He nodded approvingly. “That look suits you.”

Shiro looked down at the shirt. “Kolivan gave these clothes to me. My robes were still bloodstained from the attack on Garrison and were beginning to grow dirty, so I washed them, but they seem to have disappeared from the line.” His lips quirked up in a flash of a smile. “I admit they were not as practical as these, but I would still like to keep them.” 

“I’ll find where he has hidden them.” Keith snorted quietly in laughter. His sneaky fox of a husband… Keith slipped the pack off his shoulder and handed it to Shiro after taking the fish and berries out. “Take this and air out the bedroll. I am tired from my journey and want to rest a moment before I cook these,” he said, holding up the fish. 

Shiro set the farming hoe against the wall and lifted the pack in his arms, following Keith into the house. “Where was it that you went, anyway? Kolivan would only say that you would be away for a few days.” 

“I went to Oriande, our most important temple,” Keith sat down at the kitchen table with a sigh, resting his tired feet on another chair. 

Shiro set the pack down beside the table and fetched a wooden cup, filling it with water from the bucket drawn from the well that morning, and handed it to Keith before getting to work emptying his pack. “What sort of temple is it? Is that where all of your gods live?” 

“Three of them,” Keith replied. “Others live in other temples. I went to seek the counsel of the gods, as well as that of the head priestess there, who used to be our town’s Seer.” 

“What did you seek counsel about?” Shiro asked, curious. 

Keith glanced at him. “When you speak with your god and mutter in that strange tongue of your prayer book, do I ask you for the details?” He kept the curtness out of his words, but made it clear that he would not discuss his private matters with a near-stranger and a slave. 

Shiro paused. “No. I apologize.” He spread the blankets out over the frame of the loom that stood empty for the time being in the corner. “So, even the Galra have confessionals with their gods?” He asked.

Keith took a long draught of water. “I confessed nothing. I merely sought their counsel and offered my thanks for their blessings.”

Shiro looked over at him. “It must have been something important, for you to undertake such a journey so soon after returning.”

“It could not wait.” Keith noticed the curious look Shiro was giving him. He cast his eyes away, instead becoming very interested in the carvings around the lip of his cup. “The harvest season is nearly upon us. After that, the snows will come – even sooner to the mountaintops where Oriande is. The journey would be impossible if I had waited.” That, and if his worst fears had been confirmed, it would have been too late to seek Allura’s help in purging it. 

Before Shiro could ask any more questions, Keith got to his feet and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come, we should clean these fish before they begin to smell – like those robes of yours!”

Shiro huffed and shook his head, no doubt trying for indigent but Keith saw he was not truly angry. “I  _ liked  _ those robes…” he muttered, even as he rolled up the sleeves of his new tunic to keep them clean.

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

They worked together to clean the fish and prepare the evening meal. When Keith inquired as to the whereabouts of his husband, Shiro explained that Kolivan and a couple of housecarls – Antok and Ulaz – had ridden north to settle a land dispute between two farmsteads further up the coast. In the afternoon, Keith excused himself to rest, as Shiro seemed to have dinner handled well enough on his own and Keith was overcome with exhaustion and a headache, no doubt because of his long journey. He woke before dinner and the two of them were just laying out the meal when the clatter of hooves outside signaled the jarl’s return. While Shiro took the horse to the stable, Keith served dinner (after welcoming his husband home with a kiss, of course). 

After dinner and cleaning up, they all retired – Shiro to the small room off to the side of the kitchen, and Keith and Kolivan in their bedroom.

Keith dropped to sit on the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. His headache had worsened over the course of the day and he still felt as exhausted as he had before resting, if not more. 

“You seem tired, husband.” Kolivan tugged his tunic off over his head, the action drawing Keith’s attention even through his fatigue. 

“I guess the journey from Oriande took more out of me than I thought,” Keith admitted. 

Kolivan hummed thoughtfully. “Usually, when we go to Oriande, we rest there for nine days for the festival before making the journey home. You had little time to rest. It was not so much a day and a half journey as it was three days, in this case.” 

“I suppose that is true.” That made him feel a little bit better about himself. He still ought to be stronger than this, though. 

Keith tugged off his boots and laid back in bed, idly watching his husband unwind the long braid he wore and begin to run a wooden comb through his locks. Shiro had reacted so funnily, when he learned that the Galrans bathed regularly and took great care of their hair and hygiene. The Saxons could stand to learn something from the ‘barbaric’ Northmen, he thought. 

“You said you learned good things at Oriande,” Kolivan said, eyeing him in the mirror. “But did you learn something troubling as well?” 

“It is more that I am tired than I am troubled,” Keith sighed, and relayed what Allura had told him about the possibility of his dream still coming to pass, yet not Seeing any children in his future. 

“That is good, at least,” Kolivan said when he finished. He placed the comb on the dresser once more and joined Keith in bed. “Whatever else comes, we will face it together.” 

Keith smiled and turned his face toward him for a kiss. He let his hand trace over the stubble coming through on Kolivan’s jaw, then slid his hand down his chest. “Even though I am tired, I still find myself hungry for you,” he murmured against his lips. 

“You are hungrier than usual, my love,” Kolivan commented, head tilted just slightly as he considered him.

Keith just shrugged. Perhaps it was unusual, but he didn’t pay it much thought. “I missed you. My journey was long and lonely.”

“Then I will take care of you,” Kolivan shifted to kneel between his legs. “Just relax.” 

“You are too good to me, Kolivan…” Keith sighed.

“I do nothing you do not deserve, my heart,” Kolivan replied, sliding Keith’s breeches down his legs and lying between them. 

Keith let his eyes fall closed with a soft moan as Kolivan began licking at him. He arched his back, hands falling to thread themselves through silken, dark silver locks. He had only been away for a handful of days, yet every touch had him growing wetter and wetter. Kolivan let out a low chuckle, probably at his expense for such desperation, but Keith didn’t care when the sound vibrated so deliciously against his skin. He turned his head to the side with a groan, inhaling the comforting scent of their fur pelts and woolen blankets, Kolivan’s familiar musk, sharp iron—

Keith’s eyes flew open and he jerked to sit upright, biting back a hiss as something pinched those wretched organs deep inside him. He pulled Kolivan off of him and found his husband blinking up at him in confusion, cherry red smeared over his lips and nose like  _ he  _ was the one who had been splashed with sacrificial blood at the temple. 

Reaching between his legs, Keith swiped his fingers through the mess. Bright red stained his fingertips along with the clear and filmy white. He fell back onto the pillows with a groan, slamming his fist against the bed beside him. “Curse this damned body…” he muttered darkly. As if to add insult to injury, his belly ached with a sudden cramp that made him grit his teeth. 

Kolivan chuckled. “Normally, yes. But in light of your worries, perhaps this is a sign of reassurance from the gods?” 

“A rather painful reassurance,” Keith griped, but he knew it was true. He pressed his palms over his eyes and sucked in a shuddery breath. Where in the nine realms had these stupid  _ tears  _ come from? He couldn’t even tell if they were happy or angry… 

Kolivan hitched his thigh up and leaned in to lap at his cock, as if he hadn’t just seen the carnage between his legs. 

Keith pushed on his head, aghast. “What are you  _ doing _ ?” 

“Bringing you satisfaction.” Kolivan blinked at him. “You have said before that it helps ease the pain.” 

“Fucking, yes,” Keith stared at him. “But that’s a far cry from putting your  _ mouth  _ all over it.” 

Kolivan encircled Keith’s trim waist with his hands, running his thumbs over his skin. “Have you forgotten that before I became jarl, I too spent my days as a warrior on the battlefield? I do not fear the sight of blood, nor the taste; I did not care if my enemy’s blood got into my mouth whilst shouting a war cry, and I certainly do not care if my husband’s blood gets into my mouth whilst pleasuring him.” He looked down at Keith seriously. “Unless, of course, you do not wish to continue. Then I will cease my advances.”

Keith bit his lip, considering it, but his thoughts were interrupted by another twist of dull, persistent pain deep in his gut. He could almost hear Freyja laughing at him –  _ you doubted my gift? Here, I will prove it to you. See that you do not doubt me again, silly mortal. _

Keith fell back against the pillows with a groan. “At least put down a rag… we’ll ruin the furs…” he said weakly, his face as red as his inner thighs probably were. 

“We can clean them,” Kolivan reassured him, settling into position again. “And it is not so much.”

“Yet.” Keith bit his lip to stifle a whimper as Kolivan licked at his cock again. His bleeding (he could not call it monthly, as it was far too irregular for that) was sometimes no more than a few spots, yet at other times it dripped out of him like a wound, painful and uncomfortable and leaving him feeling raw and tired, mentally and physically. Even just  _ thinking  _ about it was enough to make him feel drained.

Keith pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes as if that could push back the emotion that suddenly overcame him. “Why am I so  _ weak _ ?” He sucked in a sharp breath, both in an effort to contain the unwarranted tears and in surprise as Kolivan licked over his cock.

“A man who can endure bleeding even when he is not in battle is far stronger than one who cannot,” Kolivan told him, his voice low and his breath tickling his aching cunt. “This is not a weakness, Keith. It is a strength, and a sign of reassurance from the gods.”

“...I know,” Keith mumbled into his palms. He was definitely not pouting, and anyone who claimed otherwise could expect a swift kick between the legs and see how  _ they  _ fared with his pain. 

He let out a soft hiss as Kolivan slipped a finger inside him, his passage aided by the red slickness leaking out of him. His husband curled his finger  _ just so  _ as he suckled at his swollen cock like it was a ripened raspberry in the heat of midsummer, and Keith cried out as warmth and pleasure washed over the pain that had been twisting in his gut, drowning it out. He came with a sob, his cunt clenching tight around Kolivan’s thick fingers just as his own fingers clutched tight at his husband’s long, silver locks. 

Kolivan lapped at Keith softly until he was too sensitive to continue, then the jarl pulled back and swiped a hand over his mouth and chin. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” 

Keith took a shuddery breath and rolled onto his side, drawing his knees up to his chest as that invisible dagger twisted in his gut once more. It seemed he was only allowed a few moments of respite before the torture resumed. At least it had dulled a little. “Tea,” he decided. “And my clothes.” 

Kolivan nodded and fetched a clean set of clothes while Keith sat up and looked down between his legs with a sigh. 

“We’ll have to clean these…” he said of the furs he was lying on. 

“I will take care of it.” Kolivan handed him his clothes. “Those furs survived the time I was laid there with a spear wound through my shoulder. They can handle a bit of blood.” 

Keith nodded and got to his feet with the bundle of clothes in his arms. “Ah, and I haven’t…” his gaze drifted lower to settle on Kolivan’s midsection, but he looked so exhausted that Kolivan would never dream of pursuing him further. 

“There is no need. I am fine.” He smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “Go and clean up. I will finish cleaning up here and fetch your tea.” 

Keith’s lips curved up in a smile that managed to reach his tired eyes. He pressed a kiss to Kolivan’s cheek before disappearing into the small toiletry chamber off to the side of their bedroom. 

Kolivan removed the one soiled fur pelt (it wasn’t even that terrible of a mess… the bleeding really had only just started while he had been eating him out) and washed the spot, then laid it over the dresser to dry. Then he went outside to the well, drew up some water, and brought it into the kitchen to boil it in a cast-iron kettle over the kitchen hearth. Working by candle light, he hunted around the shelves of the larder until he found the ingredients he was looking for. 

“Lord Kolivan?” He turned to find Shiro peering around the corner to the kitchen, where his small room was. The monk looked concerned. “Is Keith alright?” 

“He is fine,” Kolivan said, turning back to his work at the table. He waved a hand in the direction of the hearth. “Fetch that water and a cup.” 

Shiro did so, his footsteps careful and soundless as he moved. He poured a serving of the hot water into a carved wooden cup, then placed the kettle back on the hook in the hearth. He set the steaming cup beside Kolivan on the table, his sharp gray eyes watching as Kolivan ground up the medicinal herbs. 

“Witches’ willow fine and  _ setewale _ …” he said of the white willow bark powder and ground Valerian root. His brows pulled together in a frown. “Is Keith hurt?” 

“He has some pain, but it will pass on its own,” Kolivan admitted. He tipped the powder into the water and tapped the edge of the cup, giving the priest a pointed look. “We would do well to keep this tea on hand for the next few days.” He turned away and plucked a few spear-shaped mint leaves from the plant potted on the window ledge. They would give some flavor to the bitter tea, and their leaves would strengthen Keith’s blood. He rolled the leaves roughly between his palms to crush them before adding them to the tea. 

Shiro watched him thoughtfully. “I have seen midwives prepare such remedies for women afflicted with their monthly pains. Is that what ails Keith now?” 

“In a way,” Kolivan spared him a look tinged with reproach. “Though he suffers from such pains, he is no less a man for it. And his do not come so regularly as to be called monthly.” He placed the roots and bark back in their jars and showed Shiro where they were stored. “Prepare a cup of this with every meal, until he tells you to stop. Less Valerian in the morning and noon, as it also aids in sleep. And do not mention the cause of his pain; his mood is already fragile during this time anyway. He prefers to ignore it as best he can.” 

“Yes, sir.” Shiro nodded. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Even after living among them for nearly a fortnight, Shiro could not help but think that there was no end to the oddities of the Galrans. Some things baffled him, others left him merely puzzled, and still others were small things that he simply found a little peculiar, yet didn’t faze him too much. One of the larger and more recurring things, though, was the behavior of Kolivan, the jarl of Marmora. 

He understood the jarl to be a position of high power. Keith had told him that jarl was one rank below a king. He saw nearly every day how Kolivan made decisions regarding the town, ranging from overseeing criminal trials to mediating small disputes and even blessing newborn babies. And yet, Shiro was just as likely to find him cooking beside Keith in the kitchen, or toiling in the fields with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, as he was to find him in the longhouse discussing matters of political importance with the housecarls. Even taking into account Keith’s lecture about both genders sharing the housework, Shiro had difficulty understanding why a leader would work alongside his people, as if he was one of them. 

“You look troubled, priest.” A voice broke him out of his thoughts and took his attention away from watching Kolivan splitting logs into firewood a short distance away from the fields where Shiro was working. 

He turned to find a woman watching him with eyes that were startlingly familiar somehow. He had seen her around and believed her name to be Krolia, but that was all he knew of her. Her ink-dark hair was half-done up in braids with the rest hanging down her back, and the front of her dress was decorated with a string of beautiful amber and amethyst beads hanging between the two brooches pinned above the bosom. 

“I apologize. I am not troubled.” Shiro said, and turned back to his work. He grasped another carrot to pull it out of the earth and added to his basket. 

“You have questions, though,” she hummed. “Perhaps I have answers. I am told I often do.” 

Shiro glanced back at Kolivan, who had paused in his work chopping firewood to speak with what looked like a housecarl and a merchant. The two seemed to be arguing, but Kolivan looked calm and patient as he listened to them both. 

“I have never known a lord to work alongside his people,” Shiro admitted. “He works in the fields, he hunts and fishes, he splits logs… yet his people still respect him.” 

Krolia chuckled and rested her gathering basket on her hip. “That is precisely why people respect him so. He does not let the power of his position go to his head.” 

Shiro tried to imagine the kings of his homeland doing the same. He couldn’t even conjure up the image. “You Galrans are strange folk,” he muttered, hoping she might not hear him. 

“Even among the Galra he is strange for a jarl,” Krolia said, looking unbothered by the slight. “Probably because he was not born into the position. His roots are the same as all of us – a poor farmer who spent his springs and falls tending the land and his summers raiding.” 

Shiro looked at her. “Then how did he come to be jarl?”

“He took it,” Krolia said simply. “The old jarl was a cruel and greedy man, as was his father before him. He cared not for his people or their troubles, and taxed us to the brink of death.” She sighed, her eyes softening with sadness. “One summer, a raid went badly. The ship returned with no treasure, only too many seats at the oars left empty by the men they had lost. Among those who never returned was my husband and Keith’s father.”

Shiro looked at her, startled. “You are Keith’s mother?”

“I am.” She lifted her chin with a proud glint in her eye – those same calculating, indigo eyes as Keith. 

Shiro understood at once why her clothes seemed finer than those of the other farmers, and why she spent so much time around the jarl’s house. But the dirt on her hands – hands holding a basket of vegetables plucked from the earth – still confused him. 

“If I may,” Shiro hedged. “I would not expect the mother of the… the wife of the jarl to be in the fields, my lady.” 

Krolia laughed. “I have no titles other than free woman and shield-maiden. I too was born a farmer like Kolivan and those men who became his housecarls. As for why, I am getting to that.” 

“I apologize,” Shiro dipped his head. “Please, continue.” 

Krolia nodded, her expression going serious once more. “We lost many lives on the raid that summer, and gained next to nothing to show for it. The old jarl was dissatisfied and told those tired, grieving, wounded warriors that they were to conduct another raid within a week, and do whatever was needed to bring back enough gold to fill his quota. Even if it meant raiding our own neighbors – towns and villages nearby with whom many of us share kinship ties.” Krolia glanced at him, her lips quirking up in a knowing smirk. “I know you think of us as savage and war-happy folk, priest. But even we have laws and customs that govern our sense of what is right and what is wrong. And attacking our neighbors was, to us, unthinkable. So we refused. The day of the departure came, but the ships sat empty at their moorings, and all of us gathered instead to tell the jarl we would not be going.”

Shiro could hardly believe it; after living among them for a few weeks, he could picture these fierce people standing firm against their chieftain. But it would have been impossible in his own homeland.

Krolia shifted the basket in her hands, looking across the field at Kolivan. “The old jarl was furious, of course. He ordered the leader of such a mutiny to reveal himself and face him in single combat – a fight to the death. But we had no leader; the decision had been reached unanimously, by all of us, together. Then Kolivan stepped forward.” 

“He took credit for it?” Shiro asked.

“He took  _ responsibility _ ,” Krolia corrected firmly. “The leader of the mutiny had to be punished. If none came forward, we would have all been punished, perhaps even killed. Whether he survived the combat or not, either way he would have saved the rest of us.” She smiled grimly. “The challenge was set, and Kolivan and the jarl fought. Kolivan won, though he did not walk away completely unscathed.” She drew a line down the side of her forehead and cheek, mimicking the scar Kolivan bore. “And so he became the jarl. He has never forgotten his roots, though, and for many years has been a fair and just ruler.”

Shiro nodded thoughtfully. “I have been here only a short while, but even I can see that he is far more fair a ruler than the lords and kings of my land,” he said quietly. He looked across the field to where Keith was swinging a farming hoe into the ground, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair tied back out of his face.

“May I ask just one more thing?” Shiro turned to Krolia. “Do you see Keith as your son?” 

She smiled knowingly. “He mentioned you were having trouble with that. Yes, Keith is my son, and always has been.” 

“But surely, you – who would know your child from the moment they came into the world – surely you must have thought that the body of such a babe was not male?” Shiro asked, confused. 

“It surprised me, I admit.” Krolia nodded. “Especially because of my dream. Before Keith was born, the god Loki appeared to me in my dreams and said that I would bear a son.” She tilted her head slightly in thought as she regarded him. “Do you know of Loki, Christian priest?”

Shiro tried to recall what Keith had told him.  _ “Why does your god need so much treasure as this?” Keith had asked, inspecting the cross he had taken from the chapel. “Is he a greedy god? Like Loki  _ – _ a greedy trickster god, always looking for riches and mischief…”  _

“The trickster god,” Shiro replied, and he had a feeling he knew where this was going. 

Krolia nodded. “That is what worried me, at first. When I first laid eyes on my child, I thought that Loki had perhaps played a trick on me. But still, I could not help but wonder… A mother’s connection to her child is a strong and mysterious thing, and I felt deep in my heart and bones that this child was not as they seemed. A few years later, I finally understood the dream. For among all the gods, it is Loki who most often changes from man to woman and back at will. Yes, he has even birthed children, such as the great eight-legged horse Sleipnir.” She smiled at his astonished expression. “Do not look so shocked, priest – did your god not make humans from clay? The gods do many things we cannot.” 

Shiro had to admit her argument was sound. He also had to reason that Krolia and Keith must be close, as he had only discussed that story with Keith. He wondered what else Keith had told her. 

“But when did you know?” He asked. “That Keith was a boy?”

“When he told me,” Krolia replied simply. “When our children are small, they all wear a sort of dress-like garment, boys and girls alike. It is easier to change them. When Keith began to walk, I began to sew a dress. He told me he didn’t wish to wear it and would rather wear trousers – though not in as many words, and much more pointing and gesturing, as children do.” She chuckled. “So I cut the dress into a shirt, made some leggings out of soft goatskin, and that was that. He has been wearing them ever since. Not the same ones, mind you, he has gotten far too big for them.” She laughed softly at her own joke. “We here teach both sons and daughters in the ways of war, so they might defend themselves and their homes when they grow up. Keith always took a liking to it more than was expected, even wrestling with the boys his age. So it was hardly surprising when he told me he wanted an arm-ring – the mark of a free man.” Her eyes turned sad. “It was the one thing I could not give him. In those days, only men could have such rings. Women might go on raids and attend the Thing, but without an arm-ring we had no say in political matters.”

Shiro knew for a fact that Keith had one now – a wrought silver bracelet around his left wrist. “How did he get one, then?”

Krolia inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly through her nose, considering her words before she spoke them. “Our farmstead was far removed from town, and in those days, the jarl did not bother blessing newborn children. No one in town had seen Keith, and those who were close to us had only ever known him as a boy for the longest time. So my husband took Keith to the Thing with him, he stood in line with two other boys his age, and all three received their arm-rings and swore fealty to their jarl. No questions were asked, so we gave no answers.”

“So you deceived them?” Shiro asked. 

“Is it deception if it is true?” Krolia countered. “Keith was a boy in all but birth.” She paused thoughtfully, then went on. “Sometimes, the gods work in mysterious ways, and they set challenges for us to overcome in our lives. They gave him no physical sign of manhood at birth, but gave him no trouble in claiming his arm-ring – arguably a more visible sign of manhood, for it can be seen without needing to remove one’s clothes. The way of the gods can seem mysterious, to us mortals.”

Shiro turned her words over in his mind. 

“Did you ever mourn the loss of the daughter you brought into this world?” he asked carefully.

“I never had a daughter. There was never any loss to mourn, save for that of my husband years later,” Krolia said. 

“But how did you feel, when Keith told you?” Shiro asked. 

“Unsurprised,” Krolia replied simply. “And really, it was like following many threads on a loom, and suddenly stepping back and seeing that yes, they all come together, and make a clear design. I also felt joy that my child could be so strong as to know who he is from such a young age. A son is a blessing, no matter when they come.” 

He supposed that made sense, in a way. At least, it helped him to understand better. 

Shiro looked over toward Keith again, intending to say something to Krolia. Then he spotted a massive wolf with fur as black as the night, creeping toward the unsuspecting man while his back was turned, and Shiro’s heart stopped in his chest. “Oh Lord in Heaven, help him,” he whispered. 

“Oh dear,” Krolia said, but she sounded much less worried. She sounded almost amused, but Shiro hardly noticed, all of his attention riveted on the huge black wolf stalking closer and closer to its victim. 

The wolf charged, and Shiro started running as he called out “ _ Keith! _ Behind you!”

Keith barely had time to look up before the beast was upon him, tackling him with a feral snarl. Shiro felt panic grip his heart as the beast took him down. As he drew closer, fully prepared to chuck his basket of vegetables at the creature, Keith managed to get onto his back and started to wrestle with the wolf, laughing.

Wait. Laughing?

Shiro slowed just outside of the reach of the beast’s thrashing and stood watching, bewildered and confused. 

“There you are, Kosmo!” Keith laughed, ruffling the thick fur behind the wolf’s ears as the beast licked his face. “I was beginning to think you had run off and forgotten about me.” 

“Keith?” Shiro stared at him. “Are you… okay?” 

“Oh, no need to worry,” Keith chuckled, getting to his feet. The wolf circled around him, sniffing and nuzzling what it could reach, then reared up and planted its paws on Keith’s shoulders, standing nearly as tall as him. Keith patted him and looked over at Shiro. “This is Kosmo. My hound.” 

Shiro’s eyes traveled over the beast’s thick fur that was so black it was nearly blue, the enormous paws, the inch-long canine teeth (so very close to Keith’s face and throat…) and strange yellow eyes. And, of course, the sheer size of the creature, bigger than any dog Shiro had ever seen. “That is a wolf,” he said dumbly.

“He’s half wolf, half hound,” Keith shrugged, uncaring of the fact that Shiro’s mouth dropped open at the absurd statement (a wolf and a dog had…?) Keith nudged the beast off his shoulders and dropped to a crouch to scratch behind his ears. “He comes and goes as he pleases, but usually sticks by me, or my mother. We were the ones who found him as a pup while we were hunting.”

“You keep. A wolf. As a hound?” Shiro stammered. Men with long hair, women who fought in battle, jarls who worked alongside their people, wolves kept as hounds… Was there  _ nothing  _ that was not upside down and backwards, with these people?? 

“He’s a good boy. Now, at least.” Keith rubbed his fingers through the beast’s thick fur behind his ears. “He’s very intelligent, and knows not to bother the sheep, cattle, and chickens. He eats what we feed the rest of our hounds, and if he is still hungry, he goes off to the woods to hunt. He sometimes stays out there for quite a while, but always returns.” Keith pressed his lips to the fur between the creature’s ears in a kiss, while Shiro stared at him, flabbergasted; showing affection to a beast whose purpose was merely to guard the home and assist on hunts? 

The wolf-hound, who seemed to have only just taken notice of Shiro, looked over at him and sniffed the air. His posture tensed and he let out a growl, putting himself between Keith and Shiro. 

“No, no,” Keith looped an arm around the beast to stop him in case he decided to lunge. “This is Shiro. He is a friend. His people call it  _ freondscip _ , but you don’t know that word, do you? But Shiro is a friend, okay Kosmo? He lives with us now, just like you.” 

Shiro was not sure whether he ought to be honored that Keith thought of him as a friend, or offended that his presence in Keith’s home was likened to that of the wolf-hound. 

“Shiro, hold out your hand,” Keith told him. 

“Absolutely not,” Shiro said flatly. “It would be devoured.” 

Keith tossed him a withering look. “Just do it.” 

Shiro grit his teeth and slowly extended his hand, palm up. The wolf-hound stopped growling and tentatively sniffed the air, then his hand. Finally, he licked Shiro’s palm and wagged his tail. 

“He likes you,” Keith smiled. 

Shiro looked down at his saliva-slimy hand. “Lovely.” 

His disgust must have showed on his face, because Keith laughed at him. Based on the way the wolf-hound’s tongue lolled out of his mouth, he was pretty sure the beast was laughing at him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krolia is the mom we all want. Kosmo is a good boy.
> 
> Also it didn’t fit anywhere and wasn’t long enough to make its own scene, but Keith’s method of dealing with his period is to march over to Pidge and demand to spar, to which her usual answer is “fuck yes, I just started too and I’m fucking sick of this”, and then the two of them duke it out with such ferocity that anyone passing by probably wonders if someone insulted the other’s honor or something. Nope, they’re just friends who are fed up with their bodies’ bullshit and would gladly cardio-workout until they drop if it means less days of dealing with a period. Healthy? No. Something they would do? Probably. ~~(based on what I’ve been known to do? ...Yes.)~~
> 
> The next chapter will be a flashback that is out of chronological line with the rest of the story, by the way. Just a little look back into Kolivan and Keith’s relationship.


	4. Interlude (a look back)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that this is a FLASHBACK and this chapter is not chronologically in line with the rest of the story. I was in a koliveith-y mood and wanted to show how they ended up together (married, that is. They were unofficially together as lovers before that). In the process of writing the story Krolia tells Shiro in the previous chapter, I ended up with a lot more thoughts and wrote them here for fun. 
> 
> This takes place shortly after the events Krolia told Shiro about, when Kolivan became the jarl of Marmora.

The harvest feast was small, but important for the morale of the people. After the failure of the summer raid, their harvest – and what they could hunt and fish – was all they had. They came together to celebrate their hard work, and the night was enjoyable for all, but there were still so many empty seats in the hall. Many of the high seats to either side of Kolivan were empty as well; the old jarl’s housecarls had either fled town or stepped down from their positions, and only Antok and Ulaz had accepted his offers when he asked them. But all of them were more accustomed to dining and drinking with their friends and loved ones, so he would not confine them to the high table. He himself spent as little time there as possible, preferring to talk with people as he always had. 

Kolivan looked up as the mead hall door opened and Thace slipped inside, his expression grim. He hurried over to Kolivan and leaned in close to whisper. “Kolivan, jarl Ranveig is here. He says he wishes to pay his respects and congratulate you.” 

Kolivan glanced at the closed door again, surprised. “Send him in, then.” 

Thace nodded and hurried away. Kolivan went to the throne at the head table and sat down, steeling himself. He had faced countless enemies in battle, but the thought of proving himself as a new jarl in a social capacity made his nerves twist in his gut. 

The doors opened again, letting in a blast of cool air along with the bear of a man who strode through them. “Jarl Kolivan,” Ranveig spread his hands and smiled. “Forgive me for turning up unexpectedly, but I had to offer my congratulations.”

“Thank you, jarl Ranveig,” Kolivan replied. “You and your men are most welcome here. Please, come and dine with us.” 

“You are very kind,” Ranveig said. His men settled into the empty seats of the tables, and dishes were quickly brought out and placed in front of the chair beside Kolivan’s, where Ranveig sat himself. 

After a bit of food and drink, Ranveig got down to business. “I heard about the reason for the disagreement with your predecessor,” he said quietly to Kolivan. “And I have it on good authority that my lands would have been targeted. I, and my people, are in your debt for your decision.” 

“It was not only my decision, but the will of all of us here in Marmora,” Kolivan said carefully. “Our towns have had good relations in the past. We would not dream of attacking our neighbors and kinsmen.”

“Some did,” Ranveig  _ hmph _ ’ed. “I, personally, am glad they have been stamped out.” He lifted his drinking horn to Kolivan and smiled over the top of it. “I look forward to continuing good relations between our lands.”

“As do I,” Kolivan returned the toast. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

The next day, as Ranveig and his warriors were preparing to set sail back for their lands, the jarl pulled Kolivan aside once more. 

“Thank you for welcoming us into your hall, especially on such short notice,” Ranveig clasped his forearm firmly. 

“The pleasure was ours. Friends are always welcome at our feasts,” Kolivan replied. 

“And I look forward to being invited to your wedding,” Ranveig added with a wink. 

The words took him aback. “Wedding?”

“Of course! A jarl must have a wife,” Ranveig chuckled, oblivious to Kolivan’s sinking heart. “I’m sure you have no shortage of young maidens throwing their hearts to you, but you must choose carefully. A good wife can have a good bearing on a jarl’s relations with his people.” 

“Yes. Of course,” Kolivan managed. He knew that to be true, and that it was just good politics. 

Ranveig clapped him on the back, then strode off down the dock to where his ship was waiting. 

After the ship had set sail and everyone else had dispersed back to their duties, Kolivan wandered over to where Keith was teaching a couple of young boys how to fight. 

Keith glanced at him as he blocked a hit and nodded in greeting. One of the boys, who could not be higher than Keith’s waist, rammed his wooden round-shield against Keith’s with a grunt, throwing his whole body into the hit. Keith barely budged. 

“Good show of courage, but you have left yourself open.” Keith tapped his wooden practice axe against the boy’s side. He stepped off to the side. “Spar with Halfdan.”

The two boys exchanged a few blows while Keith slipped off to the side, coming to stand by Kolivan. 

“What did jarl Ranveig want?” Keith asked, resting the wooden axe on his shoulder. 

Kolivan exhaled slowly. “Something that I may not be able to bear,” he replied, his voice low enough to be hidden under the clack of wooden staves and yells from the young boys. 

Keith glanced at him out of the corners of his eyes. Try as he might to remain stoic, Kolivan always felt picked-apart under Keith’s gaze. 

In front of them, Halfdan managed to knock his older brother to the ground, Harald letting out a pained “ _ oompf! _ ” as he fell back. The younger boy then kicked him in the stomach. 

“Alright, alright,” Keith called, stepping forward. “You’ve done enough for the day. Help your brother up, then you two had best be getting home.” 

“Why should I help him up, if I defeated him?” The little boy squinted suspiciously. 

“Defeat your enemies all you like, but always help your brothers,” Keith told him. “Both those of your own blood and those you fight beside.” 

The boy huffed and held out his hand to help his brother to his feet. The two of them slung their round-shields across their backs and left, elbowing each other good-naturedly as they went down the path to their farmstead. 

“You are a good teacher for them,” Kolivan remarked. 

“I had a good teacher myself,” Keith said, lips quirking briefly in a smile before he grew serious again. “So? What did jarl Ranveig ask of you?” 

“It was less that he asked,” Kolivan said slowly. “And more that he reminded me.” 

Keith’s brow furrowed. “Of?”

“The expectation that a jarl take a wife,” Kolivan said. 

A range of emotions flickered across Keith’s face – surprise, confusion, anger – before he settled on a stony mask. “I suppose that’s true,” he said, the words stiff. 

“Keith. I don’t know what to do,” Kolivan admitted frankly. If there was anyone who he could count on to listen without judging him, it was Keith. “I have never had eyes for women. I fear that taking a wife for only political reasons would be disingenuous, and a disservice to a woman who could have otherwise been happily married to someone capable of loving her.” 

“Probably.” Keith nodded sagely. “But there are many in this world who marry only for political reasons.” He sat down on a log nearby, resting his forearms on the round-shield planted at his feet. 

“What do you think I ought to do?” Kolivan asked, taking a seat beside him.

Keith’s mouth twisted. “Why are you asking me?” 

“Because you are my closest friend,” Kolivan told him. “I trust you with my life, and I trust you to give me good advice.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t.” Keith stood up abruptly and glared down at him, shield in hand and fire in his eyes. “You want me to tell you to find some girl and settle down with her? After everything we’ve done? If you seek an impartial opinion, then I cannot give it to you. Not when seeing you with anyone else would cut me deeper than an axe to the chest.” 

“Don’t you think I feel the same?” Kolivan asked him, standing up as well. “I told you I loved you, and I meant it. To be with anyone else would be torture.” 

“At least you  _ can  _ marry,” Keith spat back at him. “At least you are not  _ stuck  _ as both and neither, and at least you know that if you marry you will not be stripped of your manhood and reduced to something you are not.” He turned around abruptly and hurled his axe at a sack stuffed with straw and painted with a target, but the wooden practice weapon only struck it with a  _ thump _ before falling harmlessly to the dirt below. Keith growled at it. 

Kolivan pushed a hand through his hair, a tense sigh leaving his nose. Neither said anything for several long minutes.

“What if it were you?” Kolivan finally asked, the words coming slowly.

Keith scowled at him. “You mean, what would I do if I were in your place?” 

“No,” Kolivan crossed his arms as he thought about it. Surely that… that was too good to be true. There had to be something wrong with such a perfect plan. But he could find nothing, so he took a deep breath. “You can still, legally, be taken as a wife, by the law of these lands. Even though you are a man. And I do not wish to wed anyone but a man, therefore I would have no interest in stripping my future spouse of his manhood. So if I were to take you as my lawful wife, but regard you as my husband, it would only serve to benefit the both of us.” He met Keith’s eyes. “Would you accept such an offer?” 

Keith stared at him, lips parted in shock. Then he lunged forward and rammed the shield into Kolivan, who only just barely managed to brace himself and ended up staggering half a step back with a grunt. 

“Kolivan of Marmora,” Keith glared at him. “That is, quite possibly, the most pragmatic and  _ least  _ romantic proposal that has ever been uttered by a man.” He stepped back and fixed him with a challenging look. “Can you do no better than that?”

A rush of breath escaped his lungs; half an incredulous laugh, because of course Keith was right, and half in hopeful anticipation that Keith  _ might  _ accept. 

“I would have thought such romantic words would have been lost on you,” Kolivan said. “I cannot use the lines other men would utter in their courtship. A vow to protect and provide for you? I would try, but we both know you are just as apt to protect yourself and me, if need be. A promise that you will live in luxury as the jarl’s wife? I cannot imagine you complying with such leisure for long, nor be content to decorate yourself with fine clothes and jewelry. A vow to fight for you and bring you back riches from distant lands? I would rather fight beside you, and see you take your riches yourself. A promise to pleasure you and fill you with sons? I am quite sure you would slap me and set your hound upon me for saying such a thing.” 

“You would not be wrong,” Keith snorted.

“I told you before that I loved you, and I meant it – every word and every act,” Kolivan said seriously. “I admire your strength and skill. There is no one I would trust more beside me in the shield-wall fighting in distant lands or at my table in the mead hall. You are the keeper of my heart, Keith; you have been for many years. It would be my greatest honor and joy if you were to entrust me with your heart in return.” He sank to one knee and took the hand that was not holding the shield. “Keith, son of Krolia, would you do me the honor of becoming my husband? For even if we were to wed, I would think of you as my husband before thinking of you as my wife.” 

Keith’s breath caught in his throat as he stared, wide-eyed, down at him. 

“Do you swear,” Keith said slowly. “Do you swear that even if you take me as your wife, you will not strip me of my arm-ring, nor ever think of me as less of a man?” 

“There is nothing in the world that could make me think less of you,” Kolivan told him soberly. “I do so swear.” 

“Swear it on your arm-ring.” Keith’s gaze burned him. “Swear on your arm-ring that you will not take mine.” 

Kolivan released his hold on Keith’s hand to bring his own left arm up to his torso and grasp the silver bracelet. “I swear on my own arm-ring that I will never take your arm-ring from you. I swear that I will always view you as the man you are. Just as I swear that I will always love you.” 

The shield dropped from Keith’s grasp in his shock, striking the earth beside him before rolling a short distance and falling flat. Kolivan was not surprised by the reaction; few would ever swear such emotion on their arm-ring, for feelings were fickle and to go back on such a vow would bring with it the punishment of death.

Every passing moment of silence filled him with dread, but Kolivan waited patiently. After what felt like eons but was likely only a handful of seconds, Keith lunged toward him and wrapped his arms around him as they both fell back to the ground. “Yes, I accept,” Keith said, his voice sounding choked with emotion. “I accept.” 

“I am glad.” Kolivan smiled, running a hand over his hair. 

Keith pulled back enough to look him in the eyes, and Kolivan saw that his eyes were shining wetly even over his smile. He thought that he was happy, though, or at least he hoped so. Then Keith leaned in and kissed him so fiercely that Kolivan had few thoughts in his head for a long while.

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Their family and friends were overjoyed with the news. Thace clapped them heartily on the back, Ulaz kissed them both, and even Antok offered them a rare smile and an approving nod. Krolia’s eyes shone with happy tears as she embraced them both, pressing a kiss to her son’s forehead and congratulating the two of them. A celebratory ale was poured, and dinner that night was a lively affair. 

In the midst of the celebration, Krolia took Kolivan aside. “I’m afraid I made a grievous error of judgement,” she said carefully. “When Keith confided to me that he was a man, all those years ago… and then the harsh winters came, and funds were short as it was… I stopped saving—”

“Do not worry. There is no need for a dowry.” Kolivan laid a hand on her shoulder. “You made no error; a dowry is paid by the family of the daughter who will be wed, but I intend to wed your son. And I would never force you to pay beyond your means, Krolia. I have not forgotten your kindness to myself and my aunt when that plague took my parents in my youth. You are like a mother to me.” 

Krolia smiled. “I soon will be, by law.” She hugged him. “I feared Keith would never be able to marry. But I know you will be a good husband for him.” 

With the harvest having just been completed and the chill of winter already in the air, their engagement was short and the wedding ceremony came quickly. After all, they could not ask their guests to weather the snow and cold just to come celebrate with them. While all congratulated them, there were a few in town who murmured in confusion that such a union was strange. One or two accused Keith of not being a man, but they were suitably dealt with – first by Keith, and then by Kolivan when he heard of the altercation. Overall, though, people were happy for them; it was a small town, and they were all rather close-knit.

Their wedding preparations were as peculiar as Kolivan’s choice in a wife. Navigating the old traditions with their unconventional situation felt as difficult as navigating the sea on a day so cloudy they could scarcely see the coastline to guide them. 

“Will you toast to Freyja, after I toast to Odin?” Kolivan asked him quietly as they discussed preparations for the meal. It was traditional, but Kolivan was well aware that it also carried a very feminine implication with it. 

Keith was silent for a long moment as he considered it. “I will toast to Freyja, as is tradition. Her realm is of love and fertility, yes, but also the right to choose one’s own manner of such. And she takes half of all slain warriors along with Odin, so it is fitting that we, two warriors, honor them both. But,” Keith cut himself off suddenly and was quiet for another long minute. His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for Kolivan’s, then drew back. Even when Kolivan offered his hand, Keith did not take it, and would not look at him as he spoke, the words halting and quiet. “I know it is expected to wish for the bride to bear many sons. And I know children are meant to be a blessing. But the thought of that happening to me… I cannot bear it. It would be a sentence worse than death, to me. I’m sorry.” 

“Do not apologize, my love,” Kolivan shook his head. “I could never ask you to bear such a burden, just as I cannot imagine doing it myself.”

“But you’ll need an heir,” Keith said, gnawing his lip as his thumb passed repeatedly over his tight fist in a worried movement. “Perhaps you ought to choose someone else after all—”

“I can always choose a trustworthy individual to be my heir. It is possible. After all, I was never the heir of the previous jarl, and yet here I am.” Kolivan reached for his hand again, and this time Keith accepted the touch. Kolivan squeezed his hand. “Do not worry.”

Following their discussion, Kolivan made sure that most overt rituals for fertility during the ceremony were altered or removed. No Thor’s hammer would be laid on Keith’s lap to bless the organs he wished he did not have. They would clasp hands and both step over the threshold of the feast hall together, rather than Kolivan carrying Keith. When it came time to thrust his sword into the central pillar of the house to test the couple’s “luck” (traditionally in terms of children), he would call for Keith to grasp the sword with him and make it clear that their luck would be in terms of how they could better their town through successful raids and good harvests. And the tradition of the groom presenting his bride with a cat as homage to Freyja? Well, the two of them took one look at the wolf-hound lounging at Keith’s feet and gnawing the marrow from a cattle bone the size of a man’s arm, and decided against it. Their choices earned them some mutterings from some, but for most of the town who truly knew them, they only made sense. 

Kolivan made certain to invite jarl Ranveig to the festivities, as the man had been the catalyst for the whole marriage. The jarl turned up with a whole fleet of ships – one of which, he said, was a wedding present. 

“And where is your beautiful bride, Kolivan?” Ranveig clapped him on the shoulder, looking around the mead hall. “I’m afraid I don’t see her.” 

“He is dancing with his mother,” Kolivan smiled and gestured with the hand holding his cup of honeyed ale. He laid just a touch of emphasis on the pronouns. 

Jarl Ranveig paused and looked over at Keith, sharp eyes taking in the elegant white tunic that matched Kolivan’s own, the wreath of flowers in his hair, and the cup of honeyed bridal-ale in his hand as he laughed and lifted their joined hands to let Krolia spin underneath his arm. Undoubtedly, he also likely noticed the lack of bridal veil or dress, and the suspicious shortness of his shoulder-length hair. 

Ranveig made a thoughtful sound in his throat. “You let your bride wear trousers?” He asked, confused. 

“He wears what he will,” Kolivan said. “And he may be a bride in marriage and birth, but he has lived his life as a man and tonight he is a groom as much as I am.” 

“A most peculiar union.” Ranveig sipped at his ale. 

“It is entirely legal, I assure you,” Kolivan said. 

Ranveig eyed him. “Those sound like the words of a man who has given a lot of consideration to that of which he speaks. Very well, I will not question your decision. What lies beneath your spouse’s clothes is no one’s business but your own. I merely offer you both my congratulations.” He paused, looking thoughtful and like he was not fully listening to Kolivan’s words of thanks. “I suppose the fine dresses and jewelry I brought as a wedding gift will go unneeded, then?”

“Your graciousness and the sentiment of such a fine gift will be appreciated, regardless,” Kolivan assured him. “But I am afraid Keith has little use for such garments. If you wish to keep them, you may.” 

The jarl waved his hand. “I have no need for dresses either, and they would not fit my own wife. He may do with them as he pleases. Perhaps he can give them to his mother; she is quite a beautiful woman herself. She came from a village in my lands before her own marriage, if I am not mistaken. I recognize her, though it has been some time.”

“She was born there, yes.” Kolivan nodded. “And it was she who was most firm that we could not raid our neighbors, when my predecessor commanded it.” 

“A good woman, indeed.” Ranveig nodded appreciatively. “Yes, I will take no offense at all if your bride gives my gift to his mother. A woman of such fine moral character ought to have fine clothes to match.” 

“We thank you for your most generous gift.” Kolivan inclined his head.

The moon was high in the sky when the celebrations came to a close – officially, that is. The newlyweds would take their leave, but their guests were free to stay. There was much rowdy cheering at the declaration, as everyone knew what it meant. Before they left, Kolivan removed the wreath of flowers adorning Keith’s head to the tune of many more cheers and wolf-whistles, while Keith’s eyes met his and a playful smirk tugged at his lips; the ‘deflowering ritual’ was somewhat unnecessary, considering what the two of them had done already in the privacy of hunting trips in the woods and in their tents after the thrill of battle had their hearts racing too much to sleep. But that knowledge was for them alone, and they held their tongues while the others teased them good-naturedly as the crown of flowers was lifted. Keith tossed it straight into Matt’s face in retaliation for a particularly loud wolf-whistle, then the two of them took their leave.

Kolivan shut the door behind them, muffling the conversations and music that continued out in the feasting hall. He took Keith’s hand and together they went down the corridor that separated the great hall from the jarl’s personal home. Truthfully, it still didn’t feel much like a home to Kolivan, even though he had been living there for a few months. He sometimes still felt like a stranger in the house that was his only by right; everything had been arranged by the previous jarl’s family and servants, to the point that even their food was in the larders when he moved in, the previous occupants having fled suddenly at the news of the jarl’s demise. He would never admit (save for to Keith) that his first few days in the house were spent simply opening up cupboards and baskets to just see where everything was stored, and moving a few things around in a flimsy attempt to distract himself from the inevitable task of having to go out each day and face the people who were now his to lead, who would look to him for answers he didn’t know if he had the wisdom to give. Thankfully, he had settled into his role over the past few months, but only on the outside; in the privacy of this house, he wondered if it would ever really feel like his home. Hopefully, though, Keith could change that. 

He stopped at the door to the kitchen and drew Keith closer with a hand around his waist. “May I?” 

One of Keith’s eyebrows lifted in amusement tinged with a question. They had stepped over the threshold of the longhouse together, after the bride-groom race following the ceremony in the meadow (which Keith had won, thank you very much, further subverting tradition and making Kolivan be the one to serve the bridal-ale at the feast). None of the traditional carrying of the bride over the threshold to keep ill fortune from following her in to her husband’s home had been present at their ceremony. 

“Unless you would rather carry me?” Kolivan asked with a hint of a teasing smile in his voice. 

Keith snorted quietly and looked him up and down. Kolivan probably weighed nearly twice as much as him. There had been one occasion where Keith had, in fact, bodily hauled him off the battlefield while he was too wounded to stand, but he had had adrenaline and sheer determination not to let his friend die on his side, then. The offer seemed enough to assure his new husband of their equal footing, though, and Keith slid his hands up Kolivan’s arms until they could link together behind the back of his neck. “You may,” he said quietly, slipping him a smile that was somehow both shy and sly. 

Kolivan stooped to curl an arm around the back of Keith’s thighs, scooping him up into a bridal carry. He nudged open the door with the back of his arm, and as he stepped over the raised threshold, Keith laid a hand on his cheek and drew him into a kiss. It was better than any crowd cheering or priestess declaring that no ill fortune would follow them over the threshold. 

He carried Keith into the bedroom and set him on his feet, then left briefly to go lock the door that connected the kitchen and the corridor to the mead hall (lest any of the partygoers stumble into the wrong house whilst drunk). When he returned, he found Keith looking around the room curiously. It was the first time he had been in the jarl’s private bedroom, even though Krolia had brought his clothes and a few personal things over before the wedding. 

“It’s a nice room,” Keith commented, running his hand over the wooden clothes chest and eyeing the bed strewn with fur pelts and woven blankets. “A bed fit for a king.” He nodded appraisingly. 

“It is too big for my liking,” Kolivan said, coming up behind him to wrap his arms around him and rest his chin on Keith’s shoulder. “It will be good to have someone to share it with.” 

Keith snorted quietly and reached up to stroke his cheek. “Better than trying to fit our bedrolls beside each other.” He gently pried himself out of Kolivan’s hold and turned towards him, stretching up on his toes to press their lips together once more. What started off as another in a long line of chaste pecks given that evening soon slowed and softened into a deep, passionate kiss. Keith tugged him over to the bed and fell back on it, pulling Kolivan on top of him. 

Kolivan held him close and buried his face Keith’s neck, breathing in the fiery woodsmoke scent that was sweetened by the flowers that had adorned his hair earlier. He felt himself growing hard in his breeches and groaned, unable to help grinding into the inviting space between Keith’s thighs. “What would you have us do, my love?” He managed to get the words out, his voice low. 

“Everything,” Keith sighed against his lips. “I want you, Kolivan.” 

“Everything we have done before?” Kolivan checked, slipping his hand between them to trace the strip of skin that had been bared where Keith’s tunic had ridden up. 

“No,” Keith laid his hands on Kolivan’s cheeks, prompting him to look up and meet his eyes. “I want you, inside of me. Not just your fingers or your tongue. I don’t want to just feel you in my hand or my mouth. I want to properly consummate our marriage.”

Kolivan looked down at him carefully. “You have never been one to do things simply because they are proper, Keith. I won’t love you any less, if we make love tonight as we always have. But if it leads to something you will regret…”

Keith’s fingers tightened marginally on his shoulders, and he looked away for just a moment before meeting his eyes again. 

“I won’t lie to you, I am still afraid of that,” he admitted in a voice barely above a whisper. “But I want this. I want you. I have hungered for you for so long, and even when we find our pleasure at each others fingers and mouths, I cannot help but feel an ache inside me that begs to be filled. And even—” he trailed off, lowering his eyes as he thought about it. His fingers smoothed over Kolivan’s shoulders, fiddling with the fine cloth of his white, embroidered tunic, then sought out a stray lock of dark silver hair that had escaped his braid and tucked it behind his ear; little movements to disguise the slightest tremble in his hand. Keith took a deep breath. “Even if the worst happens, I still want this. I know that, no matter what happens, I will have you by my side to support me.” 

“Always,” Kolivan kissed him. The threat of children born out of wedlock and the complications it would bring for inheritance was one that hung over the heads of any couple who chose to lie together before their marriage. It was not the wedlock that had always caused Keith fear, though, but rather the thought of being with child at all. That would not change, even with the safety net of marriage. But if this was what he truly wanted… 

“I must ask, though,” Kolivan looked at him seriously. “Are these words spoken by Keith, or by the honeyed mead putting sweet words into your mouth?” 

Keith’s eyes softened as a small laugh escaped him. “I speak them of my own volition. Truthfully, I drank little tonight. I knew I would want a clear head to remember this.” His eyes flashed in the candlelight. “Come and taste for yourself.” 

Kolivan chuckled and leaned down to do just that. The sweet tang of bridal-ale was there, yes, but underneath it was Keith himself, kissing him back with strong, sure movements. That tremble of his hand was gone now, and he remained sure in his movements as they divested themselves of their wedding clothes, as he rolled his hips up into Kolivan’s fingers, as he wrapped his own fingers around Kolivan’s length to coat him in oil, and as he pulled him closer with a groan as Kolivan slid inside the tight heat that his fingers and tongue were so well acquainted with. All the pleasures of Valhalla could not compare to the bliss they found together, which washed over them and left them feeling warm and sated even as their sweat cooled on their skin. 

They held each other close after they finished, and as Kolivan buried his nose in Keith’s unbound hair inhaling the scent of him, he couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of comfort; like finally lighting a flame in a cold, empty hearth, Keith’s presence made his house finally feel like a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, the phrase “he turned towards her” was a Viking euphemism for sex that can be found in numerous sagas. Always with the man turning towards the woman, mind you (never the other way around), because it was the man who was the one to take the lead in the bedroom (at least when the oral stories were finally written down centuries later, by _men_ who by then had Christian views influencing them, so take it with a grain of salt). That being said, whenever I sprinkle in “turning towards” in this fic, it’s usually Keith doing the turning ;) ;) ;)


	5. Short Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now back to our regularly-scheduled timeline.
> 
> I’ve taken some liberties with the calendar, because much of Old Norse time-keeping was apparently highly localized and varied wildly between different regions and towns (some started new months on the new moon, some on the full moon, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg). Even the most concrete calendar we have -- the Old Icelandic Calendar -- wasn’t created until 930 CE (a couple of centuries AFTER this fic takes place), and was more inspired by the solar-based Julian calendar (which they needed to keep track of to do business with Christians) than it was by previously-known lunisolar calendars. So yes, I _know_ mid-winter generally took place during the month of Mörsugr, not Ýlir, but sucking bone marrow wasn’t as fun to write about as the Jól feast and it’s not even definitively known when Jól was celebrated.

Time passed; the harvest was brought in, the winds over the fjord began to blow cooler, and the days became short as they crept toward winter. The more time he spent with the Galrans, the more accustomed he became to them, but he never stopped being surprised by them – he simply became accustomed to being surprised. 

They were different from him in many ways, but for every way that they were different, he found them not so different in another way. They hung strings of animal bones and animal skulls over their doors, yes, but they hunted game like the people Shiro had grown up with. They didn’t pray before their meals, but they made sure everyone who walked into their homes was fed well. They decorated their skin with paint on the surface and ink carefully inserted under the skin with needles, and decorated their hair and clothes with braids and beads; a sense of fashion that might be so very different from the Saxons, but was a sense of fashion all the same. They haggled and shouted in the marketplace, while children darted through the crowd playing with each other. They held weddings outdoors, prayed to foriegn gods, and exchanged rings on the tips of swords, but the love there was as true as any he had seen in a church. They cared for their elderly and infirm with all the kindness and selflessness of monks and nuns, even though they were but average people. They burned their dead in a fashion so very different from the Saxons, but their grief and mourning was the same. They argued and fought and settled their arguments and shared a drink afterwards. They told stories around the fire, both epic tales of heroes and everyday accounts in turn. They laughed, they loved, they lived… They were human, Shiro found.

And their stories… oh, how those stories captivated Shiro. He felt enthralled as he listened to them, whether it was an epic tale of a hero slaying a beast told around a flickering fire, or even just a simple (to the Galra) explanation of some everyday occurrence. The passing of the seasons, or the ebb and flow of the tides… they had a reason for everything, and it was often different than what Shiro had been taught. It surprised him, how much he enjoyed hearing their stories and learning their ways of thinking.

Yet another surprising and unexpected part of his new life here was his treatment at the hands of his captors. The Saxons were no strangers to slavery, as slaves were even lower than serfs in the feudal class system. Much like those in his native land, slaves in Galra had no rights and were not considered members of society. They were treated like dogs or worse, if they were especially unlucky. By the time winter came, half of the handful of monks Shiro had been captured with had unfortunately perished, either from illness, overwork, or at the hands of their captors. And yet, neither Keith nor Kolivan ever raised a hand against Shiro. They gave him orders, but almost never sat idle themselves while he did them. They allowed him to dine with them, save only for feasts, and even then would make sure he ate between his duties. Instead of forcing him to sleep in the barn with the animals, they gave him a room of his own, small as it was, and said nothing in reprimand when he gradually began to decorate it with small trinkets – an interestingly-shaped bit of driftwood, or a particularly pretty rock he had found, or the crudely-carved attempt at whittling that had come from Keith’s lesson on how to handle a knife. They taught him things, answered his questions when he asked, and asked their own questions of him and his culture (Keith more than Kolivan, but both were willing). As the air cooled, more than once one of them would catch him on his way out the door for his chores and make sure he had a warm cloak around his shoulders before they sent him on his way. At times, it was easy to forget he was a slave in their home. 

When he asked Keith why, the Galran man simply shrugged. “Perhaps we are not as cruel as you were led to believe,” he said. 

“With all due respect,” Shiro said hesitantly. “I do believe that slaughtering nearly every inhabitant of a monastery, sacking it, and burning it to the ground was, in fact, cruel.”

“That was a raid,” Keith said dismissively. “Even among the Saxons, is war not different than times of peace? Besides, we gave them quick deaths, without pain. Cruelty is relative.” He gestured around them, indicating the town. “And we are at peace here because we are at home. What need have we to be cruel here, in our own home?” 

Shiro, having seen war waged in his homeland as well, supposed that was a fair point. It still did not explain why his remaining brothers faced harsher lives than him. Perhaps it was his knowledge of the Galran language that had saved him, or the fact that his master was not merely a poor farmer who could only offer back-breaking work. Or perhaps it was simply the kind of man Keith was. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

After the harvest had been brought in, Keith took Shiro hunting with him. His reason, he said, was that they would need a lot of meat for the coming winter, and Shiro had a good set of hands to help carry the load. They trekked deep into the mountains, until they could see the coast of the ocean that their fjord flowed into. There was a small hunting cabin there, where they could dress and smoke the meat before bringing it back to town. One afternoon, a terrible storm beat down on them and forced them to hide inside the hut, listening to the wind howling and rain lashing at the wooden and turf walls. 

“Thor is riding his chariot tonight,” Keith hummed thoughtfully as he peered out the door at the storm. “So many times he has beaten his hammer tonight… he must be close to us.” 

Shiro looked up from adding more kindling to the fire. “What do you mean?”

“The storm,” Keith tipped his head towards the door. He reached into the collar of his shirt and brought out the iron pendant hanging from a leather cord, holding it out a little to let Shiro see it. His eyes glowed in the firelight, yellow and orange flickering over the sea-deep indigo. “When the thunder rolls, it is Thor crushing mountains with his hammer, Mjölnir. When lightning flashes across the sky, it is sparks from his anvil. When the seas heave under his might, it is because he is wrestling with Jörmungandr, the snake who encircles the earth under the waves of the ocean. The storms he creates are of a truly awe-inspiring nature.”

Shiro chuckled softly. “Awe-inspiring? Are storms not things to be feared?” He asked. 

“No more than anything else in life.” Keith sat back. He opened the door just a crack and looked outside for a few minutes, then suddenly turned to Shiro with a grin. “Come. See Thor’s might.” 

Shiro looked at him, aghast. “Go out… in the storm?” 

“Of course.” A glint in Keith’s eye was his only warning before Shiro’s wrist was seized in his rough, callused hand and he was pulling the monk to his feet, so fast that he nearly hit his head on the low roof of the hut. He barely had a moment to grab his cloak before Keith was pulling him out into the storm. 

“Look!” Keith pointed straight up, and Shiro squinted past the rain to see the trees shuddering and shaking above them, ancient boughs creaking and groaning even over the roar of the wind. Keith grasped his hand and pulled him onward, all the way to cliffs overlooking the sea. The wind was so strong here that it threatened to knock them off the edge of the cliff should they dare to go much closer. Rain lashed at them like needles, stinging their skin. It was mid-afternoon, yet the clouds made the sky as dark as night. The air was frigid, yet the sea looked like it was boiling – white-capped waves frothed in the bay like rabid dogs, throwing sprays some twenty or thirty feet into the air as they struck the rocky skerries scattered along the coast. Lightning forked across the sky, casting dull purples and greens and blues among the gray clouds for a fraction of a moment, then a clap of thunder rumbled through the sky so strongly that Shiro could feel it in his chest, in his heart, in his soul. It was an altogether terrifying scene that shook him to his core. 

“See?!” Keith shouted over the din, and Shiro turned and wiped the rain out of his eyes to find the Galran man grinning, wild and heedless of the storm tearing at his hair and his cloak. He still had Shiro’s hand clutched in his own, and Shiro would have let go already if he hadn’t been afraid that the fierce wind would steal him away and send him over the edge of the cliff and plunging into the violent sea below. Keith threw up his hands toward the roiling sky, bringing with him Shiro’s hand as he shouted into the storm. “ _ This  _ is Thor’s might! Look how he revels in what he creates!” 

The wind picked up around them and another crack of lightning split the sky. There was beauty in nature, Shiro knew; God’s wonder and beauty could be seen in rainbows gracing the sky and in calm, clear days –  _ this _ , he wanted to say, was a sign of God’s wrath. It was terrifying. But there was a strange, eerie beauty to it. Could God create such powerful, awe-filled, earth-shaking beauty? Shiro had never considered it. But he could see now that Thor clearly could. He felt spellbound by the storm, unable to look away. Any thoughts of asking to return to the safety of their shelter vanished, drowned out by the raging sea, the howling winds, the rains that drove vigor and adrenaline and raw life into him with every stinging strike on his skin.

Later, after they had taken refuge in their hut, dried off, and Keith was asleep while Shiro kept first watch over the fire, he couldn’t help but think about it more. Even just remembering the thrilling gales and heaving sea made his heart race in a way that was not only from fear. Storms were both a force of destruction and a thing of powerful beauty, he realized. Like two sides on the same coin. Even this fire was the same way; a source of warmth and light, but deadly if one was not careful. Perhaps all of nature was like this, he thought. Perhaps all of the  _ world _ was like this.

As he added more kindling to the fire, Shiro idly laid one stick crossed on top of the other. Three-quarters of the way up, and it formed the familiar shape of the cross. When slid towards the bottom of the stick, it became more like the hammer pendant Keith wore around his neck. 

Shiro tossed the sticks into the fire, then opened the door a crack to peer out at the storm that still raged on. Two sides of the same coin, indeed. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

They celebrated the first moon of winter with a feast to honor Freyr and thank him for their harvest. Keith could tell that Shiro was a little overwhelmed by the feast, especially after they sacrificed a cow to the gods. The poor priest went so pale in the face that Keith thought he might faint, although the couldn’t imagine why (Kolivan had made an immaculately clean cut across the beast’s throat, and he himself had caught the blood in the bowl so cleanly that hardly a drop was spilled on the ground. Really, the priest had nothing to swoon over). He was quiet as he served at the following feast, and eyed them all with a touch more wariness than he had come to exhibit in the past few months. But a few days later, he seemed to put it behind him. 

By the next feast – a wedding celebration between two of their warriors, Hunk and Pidge – Shiro was eagerly asking Keith questions about even the most mundane parts of the ceremony and feast. Other than sitting beside Kolivan while the jarl gave his blessing to the couple and opened the feast, the center of attention was not on Keith, so he was happy to answer all of Shiro’s questions. It amused and intrigued him to hear what Shiro found fascinating about what was, to him, an ordinary occurrence. He observed it all with an almost childlike wonder that, in turn, opened Keith’s eyes as well. 

“I’m sorry, this must be terribly boring for you,” Shiro said after Keith explained how the groom ritually disinterred an old family sword from his father’s grave and presented it to his bride to symbolize how she would be the new protector of his family lineage. 

“Not at all,” Keith reassured him. “I enjoy seeing what you find most interesting about us. And I appreciate that you are making efforts to learn our ways.” 

“I have always wanted to know more about the world,” Shiro admitted, his eyes sparkling as he watched the feast. “Perhaps too much. Father Iverson always chided me, saying that I was not traveling for myself, but only to spread the word of God.” 

“You will not be chided here,” Keith said, clapping his shoulder. “The more you learn, the more you can feel at ease in your new home.” Even as he said it, he almost wanted to kick himself as he remembered those words Shiro had spat at him all those months ago on the ship:  _ it will never be my home… _

But Shiro only nodded and smiled as he watched Hunk scoop up his gleeful bride and spin her around on the dancefloor, petals falling from her crown of flowers and dancing to the ground below. “Yes. I agree.”

Keith couldn’t help but smile as well, pleased by the reaction. He looked to be almost an entirely different man than the one who had glared so hatefully at Keith in the ship. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Only a few days after Hunk and Pidge’s wedding, the snow began to fall. Shiro was inside, trapped sitting on a stool beside the wooden loom while Krolia used his slightly-spread hands to wrap skein after skein of woolen thread, when Keith came in dusted with white flakes. 

“We got the last of the grain into storage, just in time,” he groused, setting an armful of logs on the ground beside the hearth. “The snow has come. Any other work outdoors will need to wait until the spring.” 

Shiro craned his neck to look out the open-air window, but it had been shuttered up to prevent any cold from stealing into the house. “That sounds a bit dramatic. Won’t the snow melt in tomorrow’s sunlight, or at most in a few days?” 

Keith stared at him like he had grown a second head, and even Krolia snorted in amusement as she tied off the skein and slipped his off of his hands. 

“No,” Keith said, sounding like he was explaining something obvious to a young child. “Once the snow falls, winter has come. The snow seldom stops, and even when it does, there is not enough light in the day to melt it.” He peered at Shiro curiously. “Don’t they have winter in Northumbria? Or is it green and fertile all year round, without the earth needing to lie fallow?” 

“There is winter, of course,” Shiro said. “But the earth does not freeze overnight. There are still thaws between snows. And the snow is only ever a dusting.” 

Keith tilted his head, then beckoned for Shiro to follow him. Before opening the door, Keith pulled off the fur-lined cap he wore and put it on Shiro’s head instead. 

“I was hoping your hair would grow a bit more before the winter came,” Keith grumbled. “Your ears will surely freeze.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Shiro chuckled. “The island the Garrison was on was quite cold, you know–” 

Then Keith opened the door and tugged him outside, and Shiro’s breath would have caught in his throat if the cold hadn’t knocked it out of his chest. The earth-packed, wooden house was deceptively well-insulated; it was  _ freezing  _ outside, and the whole world was awash in white. It looked like a different world than the one Shiro had seen when he had brought in water from the well that morning! Thick white flakes as wide around as silver coins tumbled down from the heavens in droves, their clouds blotting out any sunlight. And there  _ should  _ have been sunlight – it was not even supper time! – but instead, all that lay above them was a light gray haze of clouds, only a few shades darker than the shroud of white that covered every surface. Shiro took a step, and his entire foot disappeared into the snow. He took another, and lost his footing on a hidden patch of ice. Keith grabbed his pinwheeling arm and braced him against himself so he didn’t fall. 

“It’s like you’ve never seen snow before…” Keith laughed. 

“It doesn’t snow quite this much in Northumbria!” Shiro defended himself. Once he gained his balance back, he couldn’t stop looking around. Ice had spread over the first few feet of water closest to the shore like glass, and mist curled up off what was left of the open water. Even the ocean at the mouth of the fjord was obscured in fog, or perhaps more snow clouds. He turned to Keith. “And it really will stay like this until the spring?” 

“More or less,” Keith’s lips quirked up in a smile as he watched him. “Such wonder in your eyes… perhaps you would like to play in the snow for a while with the children?”

“I— no, of course not,” Shiro huffed. “I am not a  _ child _ ...” 

“Are you sure?” Keith flashed a teasing grin at him. “After all, we measure our lives in how many winters we have survived. If you have not seen a winter such as this, then you truly are a very large babe.” 

“I am  _ not _ ,” Shiro crossed his arms, as much to look intimidating as it was to warm himself. “I was  _ born  _ in the winter, on the fifty-ninth day of the seven hundred sixty-eighth year of our Lord–” he noticed Keith squinting at him curiously and remembered that these Vikings did not count time in the fashion of the Roman Julian calendar, and he took a moment to think of the moon-based year-wheel they had taught him. “The… Þorri or Gói moon, sometime between those. Twenty-five winters before this one. I am not a child.” He huffed again, and his breath made white clouds in front of his face like a dragon bellowing smoke. “Besides, we have work to do. There is no time for play.” 

Keith shrugged and scooped up a handful of snow, then stuck out his tongue and licked at it. “We are not so busy. There’s a bit of time for idle fun, especially when we’ll be trapped inside for most of the winter.” 

“Are you eating that?” Shiro asked him, mollified. 

“Freshly fallen snow tastes crisp and clear.” Keith grinned at him. “Just don’t eat anything yellow. That’s where a dog or perhaps a drunkard has—”

“Yes, I think I can gather that much,” Shiro cut him off, his voice dry. While Keith snickered at his expense, Shiro stooped down to scoop up his own handful of pristine snow. He poked out his tongue and touched it to the cold flakes, and his face lit up; it  _ was  _ refreshing, and pleasantly bracing—

Suddenly a hand lightly batted the back of his own, sending a palmful of snow flying right into his face. 

Shiro sputtered inarticulately and wiped the snow out of his eyes, only to find Keith laughing uproariously at him with a suspicious amount of snowflakes clinging to his own right hand. 

“You—” Before Shiro could get his accusation out, Keith was stooping low to gather up more snow. Quicker than Shiro could catch, Keith had formed a ball out of the snow and tossed it right at his chest, where it exploded in a flurry of white. “Hey!” Shiro exclaimed, but Keith was already running away and scooping up more snow. Shiro ducked to avoid the projectile this time, and nearly slipped as he gathered up a handful of snow himself before flinging it at the Galran. Somehow, it didn’t have the same effect; it only flew in a spray a few feet in front of him and disintegrated, falling harmlessly to the ground.

“How are you—? Oh, stop that!” Shiro ducked again, as Keith somehow made his own handfuls of snow fly several feet and strike him with pinpoint accuracy. He snatched up more snow with a growl and flung it at him, but all it did was make Keith laugh. 

Shiro was beginning to think he would surely lose this bizarre battle sort of thing that he had suddenly found himself in. He managed to steal a lid off a barrel and used it as a round-shield, but he had no way of attacking from his end. He was about to give up and call a temporary truce if Keith would show him how he was making those projectiles, when all of a sudden, a hand seized him by the shoulder and dragged him around the corner of the house, spinning him around, and Shiro found the jarl himself standing there frowning down at him. 

“Oh, jarl Kolivan!” Shiro gulped, and would have stepped back – into Keith’s range – if not for the tight grip on his shoulder. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to— I’ll get back to work, I apologize—” He and the jarl got along well enough, but he was a quiet man by nature and didn’t speak to Shiro as much as Keith did, so he was still much more intimidating than Keith, in Shiro’s eyes. 

Kolivan tugged him down to the ground so that they were both crouching in the snow. He turned his head as he reached for something, and Shiro found himself face to face with that fearsome eagle inked in red and purplish-black on his scalp. He dropped his eyes to Kolivan’s hands and found him gathering up a handful of snow and pressing it between his cupped palms, packing it into a ball. With a wink and a playful flicker of a grin, he placed the packed ball in Shiro’s hands and wordlessly pointed to the corner of the house, where Keith was surely lying in wait. 

Shiro grinned and, at Kolivan’s direction, poked his head around the corner. A snowball lobbed at him made him retreat almost instantly, but once it flew past, he emerged again and threw the one the jarl had given him. It missed, but Keith’s surprised yelp was a decent enough reward on its own, and Shiro quickly set to work packing a new ball of snow on his own, just as Kolivan had. He looked around, but the jarl had already disappeared. Perhaps he didn’t want to be seen playing like a child, Shiro thought. Then a much-too-close crunch of snow indicated that his enemy had dared to creep closer, and Shiro turned his attention back to the battle at hand. 

They threw snowballs at each other until their fingers were red and numb with cold, and Keith finally called a truce. Shiro managed to get one more hit in – he had been aiming for his chest, but had missed spectacularly and hit him square in the face, leaving the Galran sputtering and chasing him inside the house. 

“Having fun?” Kolivan asked with a wry, knowing smile as he added more logs to the fire. 

“Shiro is a dishonorable fiend, and you must avenge me, husband,” Keith attempted to sound stern, even as he fought back laughter. 

“He is only saying that because I managed to land one good hit at the end,” Shiro explained. 

Kolivan arched an eyebrow. “You must be a quick learner, then.” 

“He was brilliant,” Keith dropped his farce and dusted the snow off his cloak. “Was absolutely dreadful for a few minutes, then he ducked around the corner and must have had some sort of epiphany, because he came out lobbing snowballs like—” he stopped suddenly and turned to Kolivan, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “...like someone  _ taught  _ him.” 

“Perhaps it was Odin,” Krolia commented from her place at the loom, hiding her smile by keeping her back to them. “You know he often takes the guise of an old man to impart his wisdom to us mortals here on Midgard. Especially as we approach the Ýlir moon, when he is more apt to do so.”

Keith crossed his arms, skeptical. “The wisdom of snowballs?”

“It would not be outside the realm of possibility,” Kolivan said carefully as he pushed himself up to his feet and dusted bits of bark from his hands. “Well, Shiro? Did you happen across a wise old man? One-eyed, and probably accompanied by a raven?” 

Shiro knew for certain who it had been, and he glanced at him for a moment as he opened his mouth to say it. But then he remembered the wink Kolivan had given him, and the inked bird of prey – an eagle, he had always thought, but who was to say it wasn’t a raven? – tattooed onto the side of his head.

Shiro attempted to look serious, but a smile pushed at his lips anyway. “Yes. It was probably Odin, the all-father, for he was so wise and benevolent.” 

There was a moment of silence, no longer than a heartbeat, and Shiro wondered whether he was allowed to say such a thing. Then Kolivan flashed him a warm smile, and Keith laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Never thought we’d see the day when those words would come from  _ your  _ lips, priest! Perhaps you really are one of us, now!” 

Shiro laughed with him and playfully shrugged him off, pretending that those words didn’t warm his heart as much as they did. They shouldn’t, he knew. But why shouldn’t they?

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

The winter days were short and seemed to pass quickly. The sky was shrouded in clouds more often than not, but on rare, clear nights, Shiro could see the crescent of the moon growing fuller and fuller. Nearly every full moon, the Galrans would have a feast, even if it was small, to honor various gods. As he made his way to the barn one dark, late afternoon to tend to the horses before supper, Shiro looked up at the waxing gibbous moon and idly wondered what the upcoming feast would be like. There were so many gods to keep track of, and it seemed he learned new stories about them every day. But he didn’t mind, he reflected as he blew warm breath over his hands before pushing open the barn door; he had memorized so many stories from the Bible as part of his training to become a monk, after all— 

Shiro jumped back in fright at the sight of a small, dark shadow in the back corner of the barn. He lifted his lantern and let the flickering candlelight wash over the… child? Yes, that was a young boy standing there beside the hay bales, looking just as shocked to see Shiro as Shiro was to see him. 

He let out a relieved sigh. “Goodness, you startled me… whatever are you doing in here?” 

The boy’s eyes widened. He could not have been older than six or seven, and was probably still shy around strangers. Shiro was fairly certain he was the son of some merchant; he had seen him running around the market playing with other children. But that didn’t explain why he was in the communal barn this late. Nor did it explain why he wordlessly grabbed a handful of hay, stuffed it into a sock, and then darted past Shiro and out the door, disappearing into the night. 

Shiro stared after him, blinking. He slowly turned to the midnight-dark mare with the white star on her forehead, aptly named Svartr, or ‘Black’. “...Do you know what that was all about?” he asked her. 

The horse tossed her head with a snort. Perhaps she didn’t know either, or maybe she was just impatient for her supper. 

Shiro fed the horses and cattle in the barn, taking care around the hay bales in case any other rogue children jumped out. When he finished, he picked up his lantern and returned to the house, where Keith and Krolia were chopping vegetables for the evening meal and Kolivan was at the table deboning some fish that had been caught earlier that day through holes carved in the ice. 

Keith looked up as he entered. “You look like you’ve just seen a dwarf spring out of the ground from Niðavellir,” he commented. 

“That is… remarkably close,” Shiro said, blowing out the candle in the lantern and setting it in its place between the door and the hearth. He relayed the strange sight he had just witnessed, of the little boy stealing a handful of hay and stuffing it in a sock before running off without a word. 

The other three just exchanged knowing looks. “Getting ready for Jól, it seems,” Krolia chuckled. She reached over and patted her son’s cheek. “It feels like only yesterday you were doing the same.” 

Keith snorted softly and shrugged her off, the action more playful than unkind. 

“What is Jól?” Shiro asked. “Or… who is Jól?” He couldn’t tell if it was a name or a thing.

“Both are correct, in a way,” Kolivan said. “This month is when Odin is said to be most active travelling around Midgard, sharing his wisdom with us mortals. During his travels, he often goes by the name Jólnir. Hence, during his month, we will hold the Jól festival to celebrate him.” 

“Odin rides his great, eight-legged horse, named Sleipnir, around during this time,” Keith went on. 

“The horse that the god Loki gave birth to?” Shiro checked. 

Krolia nodded. “Children leave out hay for Sleipnir, and if they are good, Odin might reward them with a toy in their sock after his horse eats their hay.”

“But sometimes, it is the parents of the child that are the ones to leave the gift.” Keith rolled his eyes. 

“You cannot prove that,” Krolia hummed.

Keith turned to her. “I  _ saw  _ you.” 

“That’s what you get for staying up late when I told you to go to sleep.” Krolia pinched his nose. 

Keith shook his head with a sigh and bumped her shoulder affectionately before turning to Shiro. “Jól is an important feast for us, because it is held on the longest and darkest day of the winter, and is therefore a time to welcome the return of the life-giving sun as the days begin to grow longer. I know you have many different beliefs, but do Saxons have some form of midwinter festival as well?” 

Shiro thought about it. “Well, there is the birth of Jesus Christ, but that is only close to the winter solstice, not on it. And the celebration of it is not so important to the Church as Easter, which was the day Jesus died on the cross.”

The other three exchanged looks of confusion. “You celebrate your god’s death, but not his birth?” Krolia asked. 

“The Son of God,” Shiro corrected gently. “And the celebration is smaller. Marked mostly with prayers and vigils, and twelve days of giving alms – charitably giving money to the poor. Easter has more importance because it marks the day Jesus died on the cross to save the rest of us from sin.” 

“Is the son of a god not also a god himself?” Kolivan asked. “Or is he only half a god, if his mother is mortal?” 

“Well, his mother was a mortal woman,” Shiro said slowly. “She was a virgin when the angels of Heaven appeared to her and told her she would give birth to a son, Jesus, who was the Son of God, neither god himself nor a mortal man.” 

The three Galrans shared a doubtful look.

“Perhaps she lied to save face. She couldn’t have been a virgin, if she had a child,” Krolia told him. “A woman and a man must lie together, in order to create a child.” Her tone was full of the sort of patience one might use when explaining something very simple to someone very ignorant, and Shiro did not appreciate it. 

He crossed his arms in front of his chest and lifted his chin. “Was the god Heimdallr not born from the nine daughters of Ægir and Rán? Simultaneously, from all nine maidens, without any man? Why can your gods perform feats beyond human possibility, but mine cannot?” 

Krolia blinked, looking taken aback, and Kolivan snorted. “He has a point, there,” the jarl said.

Krolia shot an irritated glare at the jarl and turned back to her cooking. 

Later, after dinner, Keith came to sit beside Shiro near the fire. “You remember our stories well,” he commented. “At least well enough to use them to your advantage, it seems.” 

Shiro’s lips lifted in a brief smile at the memory of the shock on Krolia’s face. “Well, I find them interesting.” 

“Do you believe them?” Keith asked.

Shiro chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “You ask a difficult question, with that…” He honestly did not have an answer. It was hard not to get swept away in the magic of the stories told around the fire, with their whispered words over the crackling flames and the sparks lighting up the speakers. He could tell that the stories were real to the Galrans, but as for himself… he didn’t know.

He looked over at Krolia, who was across the room standing at her loom. “ _ Is your mother angry at me, now? _ ” He asked Keith quietly in English.

Keith snorted softly. “ _ No. She is a shield-maiden  _ – _ if she were angry at you, you would know. _ ” 

Shiro figured he was probably right; he had seen Krolia with a shield in one hand and a practice blade in the other, teaching young boys and girls how to fight. She was a force to be reckoned with, just like her son.

Keith reached down and flicked a stray, burning ember that had escaped onto the stone beside the hearth, sending it flying back into the flames with a  _ pop _ and a burst of sparks. “I find your stories interesting as well. Tell me more about the twelve days of giving money to the poor, during your midwinter that is not a midwinter festival. Does everyone do it? Or only the priests and priestesses?”

Shiro was used to Keith asking such questions. He recognized that same drive to learn in Keith as he felt in himself. “Anyone who is able does it, as part of their Christian duty,” Shiro explained. 

Keith propped his chin in his hand and looked at Shiro, the fire casting flickering shapes in his dark eyes. “Even the kings?” 

Shiro hesitated. He looked around, even though he logically knew he was far, far away from anyone who would punish him for what he was about to say. That knowledge didn’t stop him from lowering his voice all the same, though. “The kings – and the nobles – give… a little. But there are whispers among monks and priests that– well, it isn’t our place to say, but if they are so wealthy, should they not give more? It feels as though they do it only for show. They leave their high castles for a few minutes to bestow a few coins upon some poor peasants, then they go back to their thrones and their grand feasting halls and dine on food collected from their subjects in tithes. They even put on their finest clothes to do it.” He shook his head. “They give in action, but not in spirit. That’s not… that’s not very Christian-like.” 

“It doesn’t sound like it.” Keith half-turned in his chair to grab a couple of wooden cups off the table. “You are always saying that Christians are kind and selfless.” He pressed one of the cups into Shiro’s hand, then reached for the pitcher of ale on the table.

“Indeed,” Shiro sighed. “To follow in the path of Christ is to renounce worldly riches. But the king… he is more like the greedy and selfish kings depicted in the Bible…” He took a sip of the drink Keith poured for him, then laughed softly to himself. “You said my stories were interesting, so here is a story for you: the Lord – Jesus – and His disciples, or followers, went to the holy city of Jerusalem during Passover, the most sacred of their holidays. When they arrived, they found that the temple there was overrun with merchants, livestock vendors, and money changers, all of whom were not just selling their goods and making a profit on holy ground, they were also  _ cheating  _ the people out of their money, and taking far more than they needed.” Shiro leaned closer. “Do you know what Jesus did, when He met such greedy men?”

“What?” Keith’s eyes sparkled eagerly. 

“He made a whip out of cords and drove them all out of the temple,” Shiro whispered conspiratorially. “He knocked over their tables and scattered their wares, set loose the livestock they sold and shouted at them, berated them for turning his Father’s house into a den of thieves. He put them in their place. Made  _ fools _ of them.” 

Keith laughed. “Perhaps the son of your god was not as weak as I thought, then.” He filled Shiro’s cup with more ale, then his own, and lifted it towards Shiro. “Skål.”

“Skål,” Shiro echoed, lifting his cup in a toast before taking another sip. “You know, it would take a miracle… and it is a selfish, spiteful thought that I know I ought not carry, but I sometimes I wish that the Lord might come down from Heaven and do just that with the Saxon kings. Especially King Oswulf.” The words flew to his lips, unbidden, and no sooner had they left him than he felt fear grip him… but this was not Saxon soil. No guards came out of the shadows to seize him, and no one hushed him or cursed him for speaking such words. Keith merely regarded him with amusement.

“Oswulf… the king of Northumbria?” He asked, his words sounding careful as he surely took a moment to remember that long-ago conversation in this very kitchen. 

Shiro nodded and took another sip of ale. The drink warmed his veins and let the words flow easier. “He is the worst of them. Riches beyond what any of us could imagine, and yet he hoards them like a dragon hoards its treasure.” He looked at Keith and found the man watching him attentively. It reminded him of how he himself watched the Galrans when they told their stories around the fire. How the tables had turned, now… “You know, I grew up on the coast?” 

“Did you?” Keith asked, reaching for the pitcher once more. “I suppose that’s where you learned to swim like a fish, then,” he teased gently as he topped off Shiro’s drink. 

“Indeed,” Shiro chuckled. “A place called Arus, though I’m not sure it even exists anymore. It was a tiny hamlet on the coast of Northumbria, about four days’ walk south of Lindisfarne – that island where the Garrison was. A poor village battered by wind and sea, full of poor fishermen and farmers.” He gestured to Keith as he lifted his cup once more to take another sip. “You might have been the first Vikings to raid there, but we were no strangers to pirates and highwaymen – fellow Saxons who turned to lives of crime because they themselves were so poor.”

“A vicious cycle,” Keith commented. 

Shiro nodded and looked down at his cup of ale, swirling the liquid morosely. Thinking about his village now was like peeling off an old bandage and exposing a not-yet-healed wound to the air – a scar that he hadn’t realized was still bleeding. “You know why I went to the Garrison? Why I became a monk?” He asked.

Keith hummed thoughtfully. “I would imagine you felt your god call to you, or something profound like that.” 

Shiro laughed a short, bitter laugh. “Hardly. I went to lessen the burden on my family. They couldn’t afford to feed me, and even at a young age I was a quick learner. So they sent me north to the Garrison when I was barely ten years old. I didn’t even know how to read; I learned to read there, by copying manuscripts for the monks.” He sighed and took a sip of his drink, hoping the ale could warm the sudden cold that opened up in his stomach. “The day I left for the Isle of Lindisfarne was the last day I saw my family alive. Only two years later, a plague swept through the region, and nearly everyone in my village succumbed to it. My whole family perished.” 

Keith was quiet beside him. He reached out and took Shiro’s hand where it was resting atop his knee, and held it in a reassuring grip. Shiro had not spoken of this incident for many years – truthfully, after being told of it, he had never spoken of it,  _ ever _ , save for in prayers – but now the words spilled from his lips as if they were the water spilling from a crack in the wall of a dam, unable to be stopped now that the stone barrier had been breached. 

“I heard that, before he himself died, my father traveled to Hexham to seek an audience with the king,” Shiro went on. “It took him several days on foot, for we had no horse or mule to ride. He went to ask for aid for the village – doctors, or enough money to buy medicine. But the king refused to meet with him. Said he didn’t want to risk bringing such illness into his castle.” The words fell like drops of venom from his lips. “My father was one of the few who hadn’t even fallen ill! But still the king refused him. And when my father began to travel home, with nothing but the clothes on his back, he was killed by a highwayman enraged by his lack of even a single copper penny. Murdered and his body left on the side of the road. Meanwhile, the king sat in his castle and did  _ nothing.  _ He  _ still  _ does nothing – thieves stalk the forest, pirates raid the coast, and the villages at the edge of the kingdom suffer, while he sits nice and comfortable and safe as he can be up the Tyne and does  _ nothing  _ to help his people.” 

“The Tyne?” Keith asked.

“The River Tyne, the river that runs through Northumbria,” Shiro explained with an impatient wave of his hand. “King Oswulf’s castle is in Hexham, a fortified city along its banks, deep in the heart of Northumbria – far from the struggles of the poor villages on the coast.” Shiro took a long swig of his ale and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I shouldn’t think like that, you know. I should forgive him... it’s the Christian thing to do. But I cannot get rid of this seed of darkness that makes me hate the king so.” 

“Some things can’t be forgiven,” Keith hummed, reaching for the pitcher once more. Shiro waved him away, so Keith only topped off his own drink before setting the pitcher aside. “He could have helped your village, but he did not. It seems just that you should resent him, when he caused their deaths.” 

“And suffering before that,” Shiro groused. “Starvation, famine, poverty, war as he sends his armies out to expand his kingdom for him… meanwhile he sits surrounded by riches.” 

“That isn’t right,” Keith shook his head. 

Shiro turned to him, blinking and having to squint slightly as the man beside him blurred. “And what of the kings – king? – of Galra? Are they any better?”

Keith’s mouth twisted and he looked away, giving Shiro enough of an answer. “No,” he said. “King Zarkon is just as greedy, and probably more bloodthirsty. He too is a dragon hoarding his wealth.” Keith took a sip of his drink, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames in front of him. “He is why we in Marmora must take what we can for ourselves.”

There was a darkness in the hard lines of his expression, one that Shiro thought was not just because of the dimness of the kitchen. He watched him for a minute, trying to work up the ability to ask what was wrong through the haze that had settled over him from the ale. Before he could ask, though, Keith fixed a smile on his lips and turned to Shiro, clapping him on the shoulder. “Well, come on. We’d best be getting to bed. Drink some water for your head tomorrow, and I’ll put out the fire here.” 

Shiro swayed a little, already having forgotten what he meant to ask about, and smiled. “Alright. Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Quietly closes out of Vikings s1ep3* ...what? I’m not up to anything.
> 
> Anywhoo, this chapter and the next could alternately be called: see how many things you can spot that are pagan “yule” traditions that survived to the modern age by being rebranded as Christmas traditions! I did some reading up on Early Medieval Christmas traditions, and it turns out Christmas wasn’t even a big deal until they appropriated the pagan traditions. It was the formerly-pagan-recently-christianized-but-also-still-not-really locals who kept making midwinter a Big Important Festival, just with baby Jesus plopped on top of the mix because this newfangled Church thing said they had to include him. Interesting stuff. 
> 
> Also, the next chapter is pretty short and I couldn’t find a good way to beef it up. Apologies in advance. I’ll try and have the following one up soon after it. I try to update on Fridays (Freyja’s day), but perhaps the shorter chapter may go up on Thursday (Thor’s day) or even Wednesday ([W]Odin’s day) >;D


	6. Long Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is going up late, I got distracted with trans sheith week and doing some stuff for Ostara.
> 
> Just to restate for clarification, anything in italics is Old English, and anything not in italics is Galran (aka Old Norse). I mention it because they switch back and forth quite a bit during the latter half of this chapter.

Keith had told him that the Jól feast was held during midwinter to celebrate the end of the long, dark days and welcome the time when the days would henceforth grow longer again. After experiencing these sunless days and long nights, Shiro could understand why such a thing would be celebrated. 

He did not tell him that they would celebrate by lighting a massive wheel-shaped wreath on fire to represent the sun and sending it rolling down a hill. That had been a surprise.

Shiro smiled to himself as he watched the Galrans let out cheers when the sun-wreath finally toppled over, the flames fizzling out as they met the snow. Such a strange custom, and yet at the same time, he could see where the excitement lay; the days had become short and brutally cold, the nights long and colder still. Of course everyone had reason to celebrate the sun’s return. At any rate, their laughter and cheerful music was infectious. Everyone had been hard at work for the past several days preparing for the Jól feast, and now it was time to enjoy the celebrations.

Keith came over to where Shiro was watching people leap and dance around the flaming wreckage of the wheel, kicking up snow that only hastened its demise. He nudged Shiro playfully in the side. “Well? Are Saxon midwinter traditions this fun?” 

“We too have ‘fun’,” Shiro huffed, pretending to be offended even though he didn’t really mind. “Just with less… fire.” 

His response made Keith laugh.

The Jól festival was long and lively; a spot of brightness in the midst of the otherwise dark and desolate winter. Although snow blanketed the land and the leaves had long since fallen from most of the trees, the forests of pines and evergreens were still alive, green, and thriving – due to the nature spirits that lived in them, he was told. But even the evergreen nature spirits were prone to fleeing their trees in the frigid winter, so the Galrans decorated them with carved runes, clothing, foods, and small wooden statues of the gods to entice the spirits back to their trees. They also carefully clipped off boughs of these trees to hang them over their doors and place them in their windows and on their tables. Shiro was still uncertain if this would bring good fortune and blessings from the spirits into their homes, but the greenery and fresh aroma of pine and evergreen certainly did make the house more festive and cheerful. The long nights of people staying huddled away in their homes were over; in the twelve days leading up to the main feast, the citizens of Marmora spent their evenings bundled up in cloaks and goatskin furs and horns, going door to door to sing songs and playfully beg food off their neighbors and their jarl. The similarity of the twelve days and giving was not lost on Shiro, who once again was in awe of how their two cultures were not quite so different after all. He tried to keep this in mind when, on the day of the feast, the jarl sacrificed a wild boar to the gods. Although, if Shiro was being perfectly honest with himself, the sight of the sacrifice didn’t repulse him quite so much anymore, after seeing a number of them. He also no longer refrained from eating the meat of the sacrificed beast once it had been cooked during the feast, and was rewarded with tender, juicy meat that was welcome after the hard winter. The ale flowed freely, and the air was filled with the sound of people laughing, talking, and singing, as well as the scent of cooked ham and the crisp aroma of burning evergreen needles and pine cones. The floors shook with stamping feet as the Galrans danced and sang to the tune of flutes, hand drums, pipes, and clapping hands.

The moon was high in the sky when everyone began to settle down. Children rubbed at their eyes and yawned, with toddlers already slumped against their parents’ chests or passed out on a bench. Mothers ushered their children off to bed, and the rest of the party-goers who remained in the longhouse brought out hnefatafl boards and lead game pieces to pass the time while enjoying a last ale. 

Kolivan got to his feet up at his throne, and a hush fell over the remaining crowd. He smiled and lifted his hands. “Thank you – and your families – for joining us for this Jól feast. Your company has brought great cheer during these dark winter days. May the gods bless all of you as the days grow longer and warmer.”

Words of agreement were raised, along with murmurs of “skål” and lifted drinks. 

“And when those days lengthen, the summer raids will soon be upon us,” Regris called out. “And I think we would all like to know, jarl Kolivan, where we will be going this year.” 

Murmurs swept through the warriors, with some nodding in agreement and others chiding the young man and telling him to be patient.

Kolivan’s lips twitched up. “No, he is right.” He met Keith’s eyes where his husband was seated at one of the long feasting tables, having been playing a game of hnefatafl with Ulaz before the announcement. Keith hid his smile in his cup of ale, while the others all waited with bated breath. 

“We will go west for the summer raids,” Kolivan said finally. Cheers went up around the hall and several warriors lifted their ale cups in a toast. Kolivan smiled and turned to Keith. “You have become quite the expert on going west, after your last expedition. We will look to your leadership again.”

Keith nodded with a determined grin. “I look forward to it.” 

Kolivan sat down on his throne once more, seemingly ending the announcements. The conversations in the longhouse resumed, this time with an added excitement as they talked about the upcoming raids. They were still a long way off, they all agreed, but they were eager to start preparing. 

“So Keith,” Regris leaned on the table, an excited glint in his eyes. “Tell us more about going west. How long is the journey? How did you navigate the open sea, without the coast to guide you?” 

“That was all Hunk and Pidge,” Keith lifted his cup towards them. “They were the ones that developed the navigation method using the sun-board and sun-stone. And it took us several days to reach the monastery of Garrison, but we will not be returning there. This time, we will be going a bit more south, and further inland, following a river they call the Tyne.” 

Shiro looked up from his work at the words. The other warriors exchanged curious glances. 

“How will we travel inland?” One of them asked.

“I’ve been working on a new boat, with a different shape that can handle shallow rivers as well as the open sea,” Hunk supplied. “I have tested it on the rivers and the more shallow fjords here, and it will do just fine.” 

“But why bother going inland?” Regris pressed. “Are there not plenty of places to raid along the coast?” 

“There are.” Keith sipped at his ale. “But they are not the king’s castle.  _ That _ is located further up the Tyne.” 

Murmurs went up among the warriors gathered, and a sickening feeling settled in Shiro’s stomach. Had… had Keith really…?

“Surely a king’s castle will be well guarded with many armies,” Thace pointed out. “You’re not suggesting a single boat of warriors – fierce as they may be – can take on a king’s army?”

“If it comes to it, I have faith in our warriors,” Keith said. “But we shouldn’t have to. Instead, we can negotiate with the king. I’m sure he would pay us handsomely just to leave him alone.”

“How can we negotiate with them?” Thace asked. 

Keith set his cup down on the table and leaned forward on his arms, and Shiro was stunned to hear English words fall from his lips – stilted and wooden, but understandable.  _ “King Oswulf, there need not be blood spilled between us. Give us one thousand pounds’ weight in gold and silver, and we will leave your lands without attacking any more of your towns.” _ He smirked as the people gathered nearby started murmuring among themselves.  _ “Does that satisfy you, Thace?” _

Thace narrowed his eyes, undoubtedly only understanding his name tacked onto all those foreign words.

“How do you know all this?” Someone asked Keith. 

“I have my ways.” Keith shrugged. He lifted his eyes to meet Shiro’s shocked gaze, then looked away quickly. Guiltily. 

That cold, hard sense of dread that had settled in the pit of Shiro’s stomach burst into flames of rage.  _ “You are a monster,” _ he hissed in English at the Galran, uncaring of the others looking at him in confusion.  _ “You are a lying, honorless beast disguised as a man.” _

Keith glanced at him, but didn’t look alarmed. He looked away and calmly took another sip of his ale.  _ “I make use of the opportunities that present themselves to me. And you should be careful how you speak to your master.”  _

Shiro’s hands curled into fists at his sides. The Galrans were looking between him and Keith, visibly itching to reach for their weapons despite understanding none of the tense words. 

As angry as he was, Shiro did not wish to be run through with the daggers of a dozen heathens. He turned on his heel and marched out of the longhouse. 

The night air was frigid, and as Shiro sucked in a deep breath, the cold air sobered him. His rage cooled and turned to despair. Of course Keith was right; Shiro had no power here, and the consequences for acting out against him could be deadly. And Keith was well within his rights to use anything Shiro said about his homeland to his advantage. Shiro was a fool for having trusted him. None of them could be trusted. Their kindness was only a farce to hide their greed and ruthlessness. 

Consumed only with the single-minded need to get as far away from Keith as possible, Shiro marched all the way to the shore, until he couldn’t go any further without walking into the cold waters of the fjord. He dropped heavily onto a large stone, clutching himself around the middle as if it was enough to keep the broken pieces of himself from shattering completely. He realized, suddenly, how terribly  _ alone  _ he was here – in this distant land ruled by cruel, false-god-worshiping heathens, who were incapable of true kindness without expecting anything in return. Was this his punishment, for thinking they could be good? For thinking they were not so different, after all? Had God allowed them to use him so callously, as retribution for his foolishness? Or… perhaps God couldn’t reach him here, in this pagan land. Perhaps… perhaps he really had been forsaken. 

A burst of laughter and revelry came from far behind him before being muted again as the door to the longhouse swung shut. 

“If you are going to pout like a petulant child, could you at least do it in the house?” Keith’s voice came from behind him as his footsteps crunched closer over the frost-crusted gravel. “You’re going to freeze out here.” 

“Good.” Shiro didn’t look at him. “If I am dead, then you cannot use me anymore.” 

Keith sighed like a parent faced with a child refusing to help with chores. As if he wasn’t a murderous traitor facing perfectly justifiable anger and betrayal. 

“And what would you do, if you were in my place?” Keith came to stand beside him, arms crossed and looking down at him. “If I were a stranger stranded in Northumbria, and you heard me speak of my homeland and knew that there were enough riches there to make sure your people never went hungry that year. Would you not use that information to your advantage, next time you went to raid that place?”

Shiro cast a cold look at him out of the sides of his eyes.  _ “I cannot imagine killing anyone,” _ he told him.

_ “Then the scope of your imagination is narrow,” _ Keith replied. “Is there nothing you would not do anything to protect? Nothing you would fight for, if not with swords then with words, deeds, or your heart?” 

Shiro looked away, staring out over the moonlight-dappled fjord. He didn’t want to think about that question, because he wasn’t sure he could answer it.

Keith stepped in front of him, undeterred.  _ “My people are poor and hungry,” _ he said quietly.  _ “I only want to help them.” _

Shiro snorted derisively.  _ “They seem to be doing just fine at the moment,” _ he pointed out, as laughter and revelry echoed behind him coming from the mead hall.

“We scrape together everything we can for the Jól feast. Do your people – even the peasants – not do the same, for your festival of your Mass of Christ, or your Passing-Over and Easter?” Keith asked in retort. “What we have can only last so long. Every year it is the same; a good harvest can only stretch so thin into the winter, and while the crops are young in the spring we are at risk of starving. Those raids give us the wealth we need to trade with other towns and secure food until our own harvest. You have been with us long enough that surely you must have noticed the growing scarcity we face.”

He had. Shiro was no stranger to poverty as a monk, so he did not mind the small servings of wild vegetables and gamey meats the Galra gave him. He also had noticed that Keith and Kolivan – who by any right ought to eat like royalty – had the same simple foods on their plate as he – a slave – did, and in no larger portions. And he had worked in their fields long enough to see that the soil was not as fertile as that of his homeland, leading to less plentiful crops.

Keith watched him for a few moments before going on. “You said the kings of your land hoard their treasures like dragons and keep far more than they need. What does it matter, if we take some of that treasure – the _king’s_ treasure, alone – and use it to make people’s lives better? We won’t steal from the peasants or farms, only the rich king. What wrong do you see with that?” 

“How can I trust you to keep your word?” Shiro asked him. “You have lied to me before.”

Keith frowned. “When did I lie to you?”

Shiro finally lifted his eyes to meet Keith’s.  _ “When you called me your friend.” _

Some emotion flashed across Keith’s features, too quick for Shiro to catch, before he schooled his face into a neutral expression once more.  _ “You think that was a lie?”  _

_ “I do not think it was true.” _ Even if Keith had meant it, it wasn’t true friendship. Friends didn’t use their friends for their own gain. 

Keith sank to a crouch in front of him, looking up at him.  _ “I want to be friends, Shiro. Despite what you think, I do care about you.” _ He paused, then continued in Galran. __ “But I also have a duty to protect my people from hunger and poverty. Would you rather I rob the Baltics in the east, who are as poor as we?”

“You could just not rob anyone,” Shiro told him. 

“But then we would not survive. Our farms are not as plentiful as they were in decades past. We could use the gold to trade with other towns and get enough food to ensure everyone in Marmora survives the winter.” Keith said. “You said so yourself that King Oswulf hoards his gold and shares it with no one, not even his people. I would do just the opposite; I would use that gold to let my people prosper. Is that not ‘good’, in your eyes?” 

Shiro’s lips thinned into a tight line and he looked over Keith’s head, out across the fjord. God help him, for what he was about to do. 

“Fine, then. Go west. But on one condition.” Even as he said it, he was aware that he was not in any position to be making conditions to his master, the most fearsome warrior in these lands and the second most powerful person in this town. Thankfully, though, Keith did not mention the obvious, nor laugh at him. He merely waited patiently for Shiro to continue. “I will teach you more English. Words and phrases that you  _ must  _ use when you go west.”

Keith blinked. “That sounds like the very thing you just got angry at me for doing,” he pointed out slowly. 

“I will decide the words,” Shiro told him. “And they will be words of peace, and peaceful negotiation. And you  _ will  _ use them.” 

“Very well.” Keith nodded. “Teach me these words, then. I am willing to learn.” 

Shiro looked at him. “Still, how would I know you are not lying, and have every intention of slaughtering every town your ship takes you past?” 

“I could swear it to you,” Keith said. “On Odin’s spear, and Thor’s hammer.”

“Swearing on your pagan gods means nothing to me,” Shiro told him coldly. 

“I could swear it on your god. Your Jesus,” Keith tried again.

Shiro spared him an icy look. “You truly are a pagan if you think taking the Lord’s name in vain would make me trust you. I know the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit mean nothing to you.” 

Keith frowned. He lifted his arm and grasped the bracelet he wore on his left wrist. “I could swear it on my arm-ring. I assure you, it means a great deal to me.” 

“And to me, it is only a silver ring,” Shiro told him. He knew that, to Keith, saying that was a more grave offense than dismissing the worth of his gods. But Shiro was still hurting from the betrayal and felt it only just to hurt Keith in a similar way. 

Irritation and indignation flickered over the warrior’s face, but he quelled it with a deep sigh. “Then on what can I swear that would make you believe me?” Keith asked.

Shiro thought about it for a long minute. “Do you value your life?” He asked quietly. 

Keith cast him a withering look. “Of course. What sort of a question is that?” 

“Then swear on your life.” Shiro raised his eyes to meet Keith’s. “Swear on your life that you will not kill, if you go west.” 

Keith’s lips thinned into a tight line. “I cannot promise that. For I do value my life, and those of my warriors. My job is to see that they return home alive and well. If we are attacked, we will have to defend ourselves.” 

Of course. Shiro turned away. “Then there is nothing you can do to convince me.” 

Keith was silent for a long minute, eyes cast away but not looking at anything in particular as he thought about it.

“I cannot promise that we will take no lives, for the line between a raid and a battle is as fine as a silk thread that can be cut by lifting a single blade,” Keith said slowly. He raised his eyes to meet Shiro’s. “But I can promise that we will harm no innocents. No women or children, nor priests or priestesses. No one unarmed. We will raise our swords and axes only in self-defense, and only after we have first tried to deflect with our shields alone. We will take only from the king or other such nobles, and resort to force only if they will not negotiate with us. And I will use whatever words of peace you teach me. I swear all this on my life.” Keith looked at him. “Do you find my oath acceptable?”

He supposed it was the most he could hope for, in such a situation. “It is acceptable.” 

Keith’s expression softened with relief, and something like a tentative smile smoothed his lips out from their tense line. “I am glad. Now, will you come back inside?” Keith asked. “It is cold out here.” 

Shiro shook his head, wrapping his arms around himself again. It was as much for comfort as it was for warmth. “I need some time alone.” 

Keith gave him a long look, and Shiro wondered for a moment if he might simply order Shiro inside. But he only stood up and unpinned his cloak, sliding it off his shoulders. “Here. At least take this.” He didn’t wait for Shiro to take it, instead draping the thick fabric over his shoulders and securing the pin – a dragon devouring its own tail – over the right-hand side. Shiro had no business wearing such a fine garment. The cloak was well-made, with rich red fabric lined with soft, thick fur, and it smelled strongly of Keith, spiced mead, and fire. 

Keith finished securing the cloak pin and let his hand linger on Shiro’s shoulder, squeezing him gently. “You need not return to the feast, if you do not wish to,” he told him. “But please return to the house when you are ready.” 

Shiro nodded, understanding. Keith left him then, his footsteps crunching over the snow-crusted gravel and growing fainter, until he disappeared back into the mead hall. Shiro drew the cloak around himself and looked up at the moon, so cold and distant and unanswering. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s a Christmas party without some drama and a big fight? 
> 
> This chapter title came from “Long Nights” by Eddie Vedder, written as part of the soundtrack for “Into the Wild”. Definitely encapsulates the loneliness Shiro feels here. He might not be all alone slowly dying in the Alaskan wilderness, but he certainly feels like it. Plus, you know, winter that far north has actual long nights.


	7. Turning Wheel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is a reference to not only the “wheel of the year” that is believed to be the Old Norse equivalent of a calendar, but also to the song “Solringen” (the ring of the sun) by Wardruna.
> 
> On that note, there are quite a few songs that I’ve either drawn inspiration from or just heard and thought it fit the vibe of certain parts of this fic. Would anyone be interested in a playlist? It would mostly consist of scores from the “Vikings” soundtrack, neopagan rock, Nordic folk music, and some Florence + the Machine songs (hey, that’s just what I listen to on my walk to/from work)
> 
> Also, I drew some things for this AU. [Keith and Kolivan,](https://bouquetofwhoopsiedaisies25.tumblr.com/post/613836986389757952/the-crowd-let-out-cheers-and-wishes-of-goodwill-to) from a scene in this chapter, and I’m working on one of Shiro from a later chapter (so you’ll have to wait for it, because spoilers). I put a lot into their hair and (human!)Kolivan's tattoos, and then kinda gave up on the clothes and background... If any real artists would like to try their hand at this AU you are more than welcome and I will love you forever, just FYI

Shiro continued to regard Keith with a cool manner for the rest of the winter, and Keith supposed he could hardly be surprised. After all, the other man surely saw Keith’s decision to raid his homeland using knowledge he had gleaned from him as, to him, a betrayal. Keith could understand that; had their positions been reversed, he would definitely feel slighted (perhaps even enough to seek revenge. Shiro, however, lacked any combat skill, and thus his revenge was reduced to cold looks and tight lips). 

That being said, what he had told Shiro was true – he  _ did  _ care about him and value him as a friend. After the incident at the Jól feast, Keith found himself struggling to walk the fine line between giving Shiro the space he needed, and showing him that he did care for him. The Saxon priest often tested his patience when he treated Keith coldly or refused to look at him, but Keith kept his shoulders squared and kept trying. It took several months, but eventually, he began to reap the first few fruits of his labor; as the spring thawed the winter and the earth began to warm, Shiro’s mood seemed to thaw as well. He still sometimes regarded Keith with distrust, especially whenever Keith asked about Northumbria and England, but he was more willing to meet him halfway than he had in the days following the incident. In time, Keith found that the distrust had faded to simple confusion instead.

“Why do you ask this of me?” Shiro asked him when Keith pressed him for more information regarding the coastal villages — how did they make their living? Did they farm, or only fish? What were their boats like? Did they own the land they farmed? Who did own it? Did they pay taxes or tithes? To whom? The king directly, or a lower lord? 

“Because I want to know,” Keith said simply.

Shiro narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “You want to know how they make their living, and how much they pay in tithes, so that you might know how much you can gain from robbing them?”

Keith’s easy smile slipped into a frown as the words stabbed at his heart. He hoped he managed to school his expression into one of careful neutrality before Shiro could see the hurt he felt. 

“Do you really think so little of me?” Keith asked him. “And what would I stand to gain, by raiding the poor villages? I ask you these questions not only to know where and who to rob, but also where and who to leave alone.” He noticed the surprised look Shiro gave him at his words. Keith went on with a soft, short laugh dry of any actual humor. “Did you really think we would just attack everything we came across, indiscriminately? When a man fishes, he does not bother catching every minnow that passes by his spear; he keeps searching until he finds a good, big fish that will be enough to feed himself and his family.” 

Shiro regarded him carefully. “And King Oswulf will be a big enough fish for you?” 

“That depends,” Keith hummed, “on if there are any other cruel and greedy lords or other such vassals who take from their people and offer nothing in return. They would be sizable fish as well.” 

Shiro was quiet for a few moments, visibly turning the words over in his mind as he considered them. “Well, there are some…” 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Months passed, and all too soon, the spring was upon them. Everyone was busy, if not with tilling the earth and planting seeds, then with sewing the sails and ensuring the ships were in good repair for the summer raids. Another feast was held to welcome the summer, with a sacrifice to Odin, the god of war, to ensure their safe travels and victory in battle. They would leave just before Sólmánuður, their brightest month with the longest of days when the sun would not fully set, save for a few short hours in the dead of night, and they would return in time to help bring in the harvest. 

Shiro could not help but watch the festivities with mixed feelings; it had been nearly a full year since he had arrived in Marmora, and in that time, he had come to see that Keith had a kind heart beneath his armor and that he truly cared for his people. He had never once raised a cruel hand toward Shiro, despite Shiro being a slave and one of the spoils of war. He took every opportunity possible to learn about the land he had stolen Shiro from, for the explicit (or, at least, stated) reason of wishing to do the least harm to the common people there, who he argued were not so different from his own. 

But he was still bringing his warriors to raid Shiro’s homeland, and Shiro could not help but feel a sting like a thorn in his heart whenever he remembered this crucial fact. 

Shiro had always been taught to walk the straight and narrow path towards good. Keith, on the other hand, took many paths, all of them being what he saw as the lesser of two evils. After watching him for a year, Shiro was no longer sure which was better, his way or Keith’s. Perhaps, in a way, they were the same, and Shiro had been too focused on his own path to see that there were, in fact, other roads branching off of his. And what was to say that he had truly stayed on the most righteous path after all? Perhaps, in his blindness, he had long been following a road that was not quite as straight and narrow as he had been led to believe.

One night, when the moon was high in the twilight-like sky (not quite dark, not at this time of the year) and Shiro was positive that the rest of the house was sound asleep, he took out the worn, leather-bound gospel book from where it was hidden underneath the floorboards, wrapped safely in his old monk’s robes. He had a small shelf in his room, a simple board at about knee-height below a window, which was now growing cluttered with things he had found; some beautiful shells, a bird’s feather, a handful of pretty stones… Shiro carefully moved these things off to the sides of the shelf, clearing a space in the center where he placed the book. Where the shelf met the wall, he balanced a simple cross he had made from two sticks and a bit of twine. It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough. 

Shiro knelt before the makeshift altar and clasped his hands together in prayer, leaning them on the edge of the shelf. 

“ _ Heavenly Father, I ask for your guidance, _ ” he began, whispering the words in Latin. “ _ Help me, Lord. Who are these gods who haunt my nights and wreck my peace? Odin, Thor, Freyr, Freyja… _ ” He sighed and looked up at the cross made of sticks. “ _ You have taught us not to worship false gods, but I have seen them. I have seen Thor in the sky, I have seen the sparks from his anvil, I have witnessed the seas heave with his anger... _ ” Shiro looked down, first at his hands, and then his gaze drifted to where the stones and shells and whittled sticks lay beside the Gospel book on his small, make-shift altar. 

“ _ I must confess this, _ ” Shiro said quietly. “ _ In the gentle fall of rain from Heaven, I hear my God, but in the thunder, I hear Thor. And why can both not exist? Why must these things which I have seen with my own eyes — which Keith and Kolivan and all here believe — be false? _ ” He looked up at the cross, but it gave him no answer. 

Shiro moved a few inches closer and tightened his folded hands, knuckles white and eyes fixed on the cross. “ _ Keith will return to England soon. Whatever happens, do not let him die. I beg of you. Do not let Keith die. _ ” 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Finally, the day of the departure was upon them. The boats sat at their moors while barrels and sea chests were loaded onto the deck. Round-shields were lashed to the sides of the ship, and live ravens were stashed in their woven cages in the fore of the ship. Bowls of water were brought out, and after the village shamen blessed the water in the name of the gods, the warriors splashed the water over their hair and faces. Men and women hugged their loved ones on the shore, then took their places at the oars. 

The crowd of onlookers parted as Kolivan and Keith made their way down the dock. Keith had traded his fine red cloak lined with black fur for a more practical and simple russet-colored cloak of warm wool, which he wore with the same cloak-pin that he always favored. Underneath it, he wore the same lamellar armor he had worn when he raided the Garrison – a thick leather jerkin with hundreds of iron rings stitched to the front, back, and half-sleeves with sturdy lacing, and paired with similarly-made leather bracers to protect his arms. The armored shirt was heavy, Shiro knew from picking it up to hand it to him as he got ready that morning, but he would not think it from the easy way Keith carried himself in it. His sword was belted at one hip, his axe and seax at the other, and his round-shield slung across his back. Hanging around his neck on a cord, resting on top of his armor, was an iron pendant shaped like the head of a hammer – Thor’s hammer, Mjölnir. Below that, tooled from black-dyed leather and stitched onto the lamellae of his armored shirt was an image of a fearsome bird of prey to match the tattoo that decorated the side of Kolivan’s scalp.

They stopped on the dock beside the boats, and Keith turned to face the jarl. They clasped forearms. 

“May Odin guide you on your journey and in battle,” Kolivan said. “May Thor grant you bravery and strength. May Njörðr bless your ship with smooth seas, and Freyr with smooth winds. Fight well, and return home to us safe and sound.” 

“We will,” Keith nodded. “And may the gods watch over all you here – our husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. Let the gods smile upon us, so that we might return to you.” 

The crowd let out cheers and wishes of goodwill to the warriors in the boats. In the moment of excitement and celebration, enough eyes turned away from the jarl and his husband that they shared a quick kiss before parting. “Be safe,” Kolivan told him, so quiet that Shiro barely heard it despite standing beside him. 

Keith pulled him in for one last, fleeting kiss, then stepped onto the ship. 

People crowded the shore and the dock as the ships pulled away, waving and calling out words of love and wishes for success. When they had rowed a safe distance from the shore, the sails were unfurled, and the ships sailed off towards the mouth of the fjord. 

As the crowd began to disperse, Shiro stayed where he was on the dock, watching the ships as they grew smaller and smaller. He wondered, not for the first time, if he had done the right thing, by offering his guidance about the land where they would raid. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

The town of Marmora was noticeably more empty, after the warships left. Only two ships were taken, carrying perhaps twenty or thirty warriors, yet their absence was apparent in the days following their departure. There was more work to be shared among those who were left, especially those who were young and able-bodied like Shiro. The farms needed tending to, and it became a common occurrence for Kolivan and Shiro to ride out to some of the poorer farmsteads without their own slaves to help them, so that they might take some of the burden off of mothers trying to manage the farm along with their own young children, or old farmers whose bones were not what they used to be. But the sun remained high in the sky for far longer than normal during these months, so even when they were hungry in the evenings, there was enough light to easily finish their tasks and ride back to the town without the danger of darkness creeping up on them. The summer air was fair; warm during the long days and refreshingly cool when the sun finally  _ did  _ set, late at night. 

Still, even as busy as they were, they found time for idle enjoyment. The long, bright evenings after supper were often spent playing games, telling stories, or dancing in the case that someone brought out a flute or drum. Young women spun yarn and wove warm cloth for the winter that would come, and adolescents too small to have been taken on the raid spent their free time training with swords, axes, and shields, making proud declarations that they would be taken on the next raid for sure. 

One evening, while Shiro was watching such a group of youngsters wage pretend battle in the open square in front of the longhouse, Ulaz came up to him. The two of them had spoken a number of times since Shiro had come here, but Ulaz was often busy with his housecarl duties to Kolivan, which always seemed to send him traveling to distant parts of the jarl’s lands and beyond. 

“Would you like to learn?” Ulaz asked him. 

Shiro looked at him, confused. “Learn what?” 

Ulaz gestured to the miniature battle being waged in the town square. As they watched, little Ubbe pushed down Hvitserk and stabbed his wooden stave into the ground beside his brother’s head. While he was laughing with dramatic triumph, the younger boy popped back up to his feet and swung his wooden axe into his brother’s stomach, prompting an “ _ oompf! _ ” of pain followed by an indignant “ _ you can’t come back to life, that’s against the rules! _ ” 

Shiro looked from the childrens’ play battle to Ulaz again. “You mean, learn how to fight?” 

“Of course.” Ulaz nodded. “Unless you already know? But I was under the impression that monks were not trained in the ways of war.” 

“No, we were not,” Shiro said. A few months ago, he would have been scandalized at the very idea of it. Now, he was unsurprised by the question, given that these Galrans all learned to fight. He shook his head. “Monks, and other members of the clergy, do not take part in wars. Fighting is against what we are taught, which is to love our fellow man.” 

Ulaz paused. “I thought monks were forbidden from taking lovers?” 

Shiro blinked, taken aback, then chuckled in embarrassment. “Oh, no, not like… yes, that is true. I meant that we greet everyone with kindness and compassion. A spiritual love, not a physical one.” There were many words for ‘love’ in Galran, he remembered; a fact which had left him perplexed during some of his darker, more hate-filled times since arriving here. 

Ulaz shrugged. “Regardless, don’t you think you should learn how to fight?” 

Shiro laughed quietly and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think I am made for such a thing…” Out in the square, a boy who despite bearing a scar crossing his eye as if he had already seen battle, yet was still a year shy of receiving his arm-ring, Yorak, climbed on top of a barrel and took up a powerful stance, yelling a war cry that would have sounded fearsome if his voice didn’t crack at the end. 

Ulaz looked Shiro up and down. “You may not have the skills right now, but you do have the physique for it. You’re tall, with a good set of shoulders and quick reflexes. With some training, you could be a fine warrior, even an excellent one. You could become a champion, the likes of which will be sung by the skalds for ages.” 

He could tell the words were meant to be an encouragement, but they made something twist unpleasantly in his gut; a queasy sort of repulsion that Shiro had not felt since the first few times he had watched these pagans sacrifice cattle and horses. 

“I have no desire to be a champion of war,” Shiro said, shaking his head. “It is not that I fear the sight of blood, for I would gladly care for any injured warriors. But I will not be the one who causes anyone harm.” 

He expected Ulaz to argue with him; Kolivan would have, and Keith definitely would have. But the other man simply watched him for a long moment, then nodded as if he understood. 

“Be that as it may, you should still have the skills to defend yourself.” Ulaz pointed to where that hard-headed young Yorak was trying to goad a girl into joining the battle. When glaring at him didn’t work and he grabbed her skirt, she whirled around and punched him square in the nose, knocking him back several steps. He seethed at her, but the rest of the children laughed at him and someone’s mother stepped in to break up the group before a real fight could break out. 

Shiro watched as the crowd of children all dispersed, trickling back to their homes as the sun finally began to set. “I have gone some twenty-five years of my life without having to resort to violence. Why should I stoop to it now?” 

Ulaz slid him a sidelong look. “Are you not here now  _ because  _ you were unable to defend yourself from an attack? Had a less merciful warrior than Keith been the one to find you, you would have been dead a year ago.”

The words were spoken frankly and without malice, yet they hit Shiro like a blow to the chest. Ulaz was right. If Shiro and the other monks at the Garrison had known any form of self-defense, perhaps the Galran Vikings would not have slaughtered them so. His brothers might still be alive, and he would still be with them on the Isle of Lindisfarne, painting manuscripts and singing hymns and remembering how they managed to thwart an attack by the savage Northmen on the holy monastery of Garrison. He would have never been brought to Marmora, nor ever met Kolivan, nor known Keith as anything other than an enemy. What was worse was that he didn’t know if he would rather that have happened, or the events that had really transpired. 

He let out a tense breath through his nose. “Alright. I will learn to fight, if only to defend myself, as well as any who cannot defend themselves.” He glanced at Ulaz. “I would prefer an understanding teacher who can respect that.” 

Ulaz arched an eyebrow. “Why do you think it was I who brought it up?” 

Shiro let a smile crack through his stern facade. “I can think of no better teacher than you, Ulaz.” 

The older Galran chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll not tell Keith you said that,” he said, with a hint of mirth in his voice that Shiro thought might be teasing him (for what, he wasn’t sure). Ulaz released his shoulder. “Come on, we’ve still a bit of daylight left. Let’s begin.” 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Kolivan watched Shiro working as he split logs into firewood off to the side of the house. The priest had long ago stopped wearing those ridiculous robes he had come to them in, and his hair was now grown out to a more respectable length. However, he generally did nothing with it other than comb it and let it hang loosely around his face, forever getting into his eyes. 

“Shiro,” Kolivan called. When the other man looked up, Kolivan beckoned him over to him. Shiro set the axe down beside the tree stump and hurried over.

“Yes, jarl Kolivan?” Shiro asked, dusting his hands off. 

Kolivan crossed his arms and looked down at him. “Tell me, do the Saxons braid their hair?” 

Shiro looked surprised by the question. “Some of them. Men keep their hair cut short, but long hair is considered a prized feature of women’s beauty. Women learn to do elaborate braids, which they use to keep their hair tied back under their caps, coifs, and veils.” When Kolivan stared at him uncomprehendingly, Shiro rephrased, “Saxon women do braid their hair, but they often keep their hair covered.”

“Then what is the point of ‘learning elaborate braids’?” Kolivan asked. If someone crafted something to be beautiful, why hide it?

“To protect their virtue. Good Christian women let only their husband or God see their hair unbound,” Shiro said, and Kolivan fought the urge to roll his eyes. Of course. That’s really what everything boiled down to, with these Saxons – prudishness and their god.

“At any rate, why do you not braid your hair?” Kolivan asked him. “Surely it bothers you, getting in your face like that?”

“Oh,” Shiro pushed a stray lock behind his ear. “Well, I hadn’t thought of it. Men don’t— although, I suppose here, they do.” He looked around, taking in the various men walking around talking and working, all of them with braided or half-braided hair. He turned back to Kolivan. “But even so, I have to admit, I don’t know how. I was never taught such a thing.” 

Kolivan arched an eyebrow. How this man managed to reach some two and a half decades of life and never once learned even a simple braid was beyond him. He remembered being a child and amusing himself by idly braiding the tassels at the edge of a woven blanket during the harsh winter storms that prevented him from playing outside. What had Shiro done, as a child? (Probably read from his prayer book, Kolivan thought cynically). 

“Come with me,” Kolivan told him, then led him over to a tall pine tree that grew beside the house, whose strong trunk made one part of the posts where their washing line was hung. He reached up and gathered a handful of the long needles, breaking them off close to the stem so that they were still bundled together in little bunches of three. He sat down on a fallen log and, when Shiro sat beside him, he placed one of the bundles of pine needles in the priest’s hand. “There are many ways to braid, with two or three or four or more strands. But the easiest to start with is with three strands. This is how we teach our children.” He pointed to the pine needles, then held the outer two needles between his pointer fingers and thumbs. “Take the one on the right, and bring it across the middle. Now it has become the middle, see? Then take the one on the left, and bring it across the new middle one. Now that has, in turn, become the middle. Right one, over the middle. Left one, over the middle. Right, over the middle, left, over the middle…” he looked up, lips quirking in a hint of a smile. “Can you guess the next step?”

“Right, over the middle?” Shiro matched his smile. “And then left?” 

“Very good. See? It is not so difficult.” Kolivan watched him braid a few strands of pine needles, occasionally offering help or advice. Soon enough, the large, loopy braids became closer woven and fine, as Shiro’s fingers became more practiced and sure of himself. 

“Pine needles are quite easy, as they grow in bundles of three,” Kolivan remarked, spinning one between his fingers. “Hair can be a bit more challenging. Especially when it is on your own head, and you cannot see your hands as they work.” He looked across the square to where some children were playing a game of knucklebones in the dirt in front of a house. Kolivan got to his feet and gestured for Shiro to follow him. 

“Gyda,” he called out, and a girl with blonde hair looked up from the game. She smiled and hurried over to him, but when she saw Shiro she hesitated for a moment, then hid behind Kolivan shyly. Kolivan chuckled and put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her out. “This is Gyda. She is the daughter of my cousin,” he told Shiro, then bent lower to speak to her. “Gyda, this is Shiro.” 

“The priest Keith brought back?” Gyda asked, looking him over with curiosity and a reasonable amount of caution for a twelve year-old girl to exhibit around a stranger. 

“That’s right. He is from a kingdom very far away, called Northumbria. And guess what?” Kolivan lowered his voice to a staged whisper. “He has never learned to braid.”

Gyda’s eyes widened. “Never?” At Kolivan’s head shake, she seemed to grow more bold and came out from behind him a little, more curious than cautious now. “I learned to braid before I even learned to weave!” 

Shiro chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck, looking abashed. “Actually, I don’t know how to weave, either.” 

Gyda looked shocked by the admission. 

Kolivan patted her shoulders. “Gyda has the finest hair in all of Marmora,” he told Shiro, then turned to her. “I have already taught him the trick with the pine needles, but now he needs to see real braids. Might we borrow your lovely head, so that I can show this silly Saxon how to braid hair?” 

“Alright,” Gyda giggled, while Shiro rolled his eyes at the good-natured ribbing. 

The three of them went over to sit on the porch of the jarl’s longhouse, and Kolivan brushed out the simple, practical braids he suspected his cousin had done on her daughter to keep her hair from being blown about by the strong summer breeze coming over the fjord. 

“A simple braid is three strands of hair, just like those pine needles,” Kolivan explained. “You must take care to divide the hair evenly between the three, lest you end up with one side that is thick and one that is too thin, and the braid will look uneven.” He glanced at Shiro and assessed the length of his hair. “Your hair is still too short to braid like this. This next kind is a bit more complex, as it pulls in new hair on every pass, but I have faith in your ability to do it. Both your mind and your fingers are nimble, so you should be able to learn it rather quickly.” He proceeded to explain the process of weaving a braid that brought in new hair each time, leaving it close to the head and ideal for capturing shorter strands and holding them in place. Gyda sat patiently between his knees, occasionally offering up her own advice without having even seen his handiwork on her head. Truly a remarkable child, Kolivan thought proudly. The whole time, Shiro watched raptly, his eyes following the movements and his lips turning up in a smile as he began to understand the process. 

Kolivan finished off one braid and tied it with a thin strip of leather she handed him, then turned to Shiro. “Now it is your turn.” 

Shiro blinked, then his smile vanished and was replaced with skepticism. “On… her?” 

“Yes.” Who else was he expecting to practice on? Surely he was not advanced enough to try on his own head quite yet. 

Shiro looked unusually hesitant. “It’s just… as I told you before, I cannot touch a woman, even one so young and for such an innocent task. A person’s hair is… well, touching it is rather intimate, is it not?” 

“She’s a child,” Kolivan told him, his words clipped and hard. “Adults care for the children in their lives. That includes caring for their hair.” 

“She is your kin, but not mine,” Shiro said. “I have no relation to her. I’m afraid it wouldn’t be right.” 

Kolivan sighed deeply, exhaling through his nose. Gyda turned around to look at him over her shoulder. 

“Does the priest hate me?” She whispered. 

“No, of course not.” Kolivan lifted his eyes to give Shiro a pointed look. “He is only afraid that his rigid, stiff fingers would tangle in your beautiful locks and make a mess of things.” He might have spoken to her, but the words were more for Shiro. 

Shiro looked away, properly chastised. It was not his fingers, but his mind, that Kolivan found to be too rigid. His rigidity had a foundation that was not compatible with their own beliefs, so Kolivan often found him strange and sometimes failed to understand  _ why _ he was choosing to be so unyielding. He was like a tree that had been uprooted and set down in foreign soil; if he refused to take root, his stiffness would cause him to topple over at the slightest gust of wind. 

“Fine, then.” Kolivan brushed his fingers through his niece’s hair once more. “Watch closely, now. It may be the last time you can see it.” He did up a matching braid on the other side of her head, closely weaving it against her scalp until it curled around her ear, then continuing with a simple three-strand braid for the rest of the hair. He tied that one off like the other and thanked her for her assistance, then she bounded down the steps and hurried back to her house.

Kolivan got to his feet and went inside the longhouse. Shiro trailed after him, looking like a lost pup. 

“I know you think me inflexible,” Shiro began. 

“You behave inflexibly,” Kolivan countered. 

Shiro huffed, looking frustrated. “I want to get better. I want to become more accustomed to your ways, your beliefs. I have always thought that learning other languages was the key to understanding people of other lands. And while that is true, language can only get me so far. I wish to understand your ways better.” He looked away and sighed, his shoulders slumping. “And yet, still, I find myself struggling.” 

Kolivan watched him for a few minutes. 

“Anyone would get the breath knocked from their lungs, if they dove into a cold lake on a winter’s day,” he said finally. “But easing in slowly, one bit at a time, can make the task more bearable.” He sat down at one of the empty tables in the hall and reached behind himself, undoing the leather ties that bound his hair together in braids. “Come. Try, while the lesson is still fresh in your mind.” 

Shiro was silent behind him for a long minute, no doubt staring at him incredulously, but Kolivan paid him no mind. If touching the hair of a girl and a stranger was too difficult a task for him to dive straight into, then perhaps the hair of a more familiar man would be a better way to ease into it.

Sure enough, footsteps came closer behind him, and he felt fingers touch his hair, tentative and uncertain and trembling ever so slightly. 

“Start here,” Kolivan reached back, and his fingers bumped against Shiro’s as he showed him where best to begin. “Start with three, and bring in more from the sides. Follow the curve of the skull.” He was quiet as Shiro started to work, his own eyes trained on the flickering hearth fire. Without the plate-sized, polished bronze mirror that rested on the dresser in his room, he couldn’t see Shiro’s work, but he could feel it – or rather, he could  _ barely  _ feel it. “Use a little more force, or they will fall out. Half of the point of braids is to keep the wind from stealing the strands from their bindings. A bit more. Don’t worry. Truly, Shiro, I don’t think you are capable of hurting me.” 

Shiro’s fingers went still for a moment, then he tugged on Kolivan’s hair. Not nearly enough to sting, but just enough to jostle his head. A clearly measured move that was done in jest as much as it was to show how wrong he could be. Kolivan snorted, amused, and Shiro went back to braiding.

Kolivan supposed he could see Shiro’s point; the act of touching one’s hair like this was, arguably, a rather intimate action (though not necessarily sexual in the way that  _ un _ -braiding hair might be). He knew for a fact that when Krolia and Keith braided each other’s hair, it was a special time for the mother and son which they used not just to braid but also to talk. Likewise, Kolivan himself was perfectly capable of doing his own hair, but he preferred when Keith did it for him – not just because Keith could more easily see where to shave in a clean line at the sides to bare his tattoos, but mostly because he liked to use that time to talk with his husband and just be close to each other. If he was being honest, he quite liked the feeling of Keith’s nimble fingers running through his hair. It never failed to relax him. Even now, when he knew it was not Keith behind him, but Shiro, he still felt himself relax under the touch. Shiro’s fingers were a bit larger, and their movements were much less sure, but Kolivan could feel him get the hang of the task as he kept working. 

“If I may ask,” Shiro spoke up behind him. “How old are you? You do not look to be so old as to already be going gray, and yet…” he trailed off, running a hand through the strands as he gathered up more hair. There were still signs that it had once been black as night in his childhood, but over the years, the strands had faded to silver-gray and even white. His father had fallen in battle and made his way to Valhalla when Kolivan was young, but his aunt had assured him that the same thing had happened to him as well. 

Kolivan chuckled. “I have lived some thirty odd winters. My hair began to gray when I was barely a man, only a handful of summers after I received my arm-ring. I haven’t a clue why. Perhaps I invoked Odin’s name on the battlefield too many times, and he has seen it fit to make me an old man like him.” 

“You are hardly an old man. In body, that is. You still have a warrior’s physique.” Shiro huffed quietly. A laugh, Kolivan thought. His hands faltered for a moment, then Kolivan felt the braid unwind a few inches as Shiro muttered a soft curse to himself. He gathered up more hair and continued. 

Kolivan hummed. “And what of you? Do many Saxons have hair that is so prominently two colors?” 

“No, even among my own people this is peculiar,” Shiro admitted. “Ever since I was born, the hair above my forehead has grown white, and the rest black. Father Iverson – my teacher back at the monastery – said it was a sign that I had been blessed by a heavenly angel who surely must have touched me on the head.” 

“And do you really think that?” Kolivan asked. 

The hands in his hair shifted, and even without turning to look, Kolivan could sense his shoulders lifting in a shrug. “I cannot think of another reason for me to look this way.” He was quiet for a moment, then went on with a bitter laugh. “Whether it is real or not, that reason spared me ridicule as an adult. If only I had known that as a child.”

“Were you teased?” Kolivan asked.

“Children will make fun of anything that is different,” Shiro said easily. Too easily, like it was a well-worn mask. “Or, for that matter, anyone.” 

“The words of children can be the most cruel, sometimes.” Kolivan paused, then cleared his throat. “For what it is worth, I think it is a very striking look.” 

Shiro’s fingers went still in his hair for just a fraction of a moment before resuming. “Thank you,” he said. “Although, I imagine it will look a bit of a mess, once I attempt to braid it. That light and dark together…” 

“I think it will look fine,” Kolivan assured him. “Just as with life, light and dark often complement each other. Without one, we would not notice the other so much, but when woven together, we can see the beauty in both.”

Shiro was quiet for a long moment, though his fingers never stopped as he made it to nearly the nape of Kolivan’s neck. “I suppose that is true,” he said slowly. 

They fell into a comfortable quiet after that. Shiro did one close braid on each side of the top of his head, another along the center, and then, in a creative move that surely was an attempt to copy Kolivan’s usual style, he gathered up the rest of the loose hair and the three braids, and braided them all together from his nape. When he had finished, Kolivan reached back and felt along the braids to check his work. They were a little wonky and uneven, and in some places so loose that he could tell even the slightest breeze would rip them out, but they were surprisingly decent. 

“Good, for your first attempt,” Kolivan told him. “You will surely get better with time and practice.” He got to his feet and started to head out.

“You’re going to leave them like that?” Shiro asked, surprised. 

Kolivan looked over his shoulder. “Why not? They’ll hold.” Mostly, he thought.

Shiro’s mouth twisted and his brow furrowed. “You are too kind. It looks dreadful.” 

Kolivan chuckled. “Then it matches the face.” He tapped the scar marring the side of his face. 

Something flashed over Shiro’s expression, too quick to catch. Not pity, but something like sadness. “I would not call such a face ‘dreadful’,” he said carefully. His eyes flicked up to where a lock of hair managed to slip free of the loosest braid at the slight movement of Kolivan simply standing up. “The braids, however, yes; they are downright dreadful. Someone will surely suspect a child did them. Gyda, perhaps.” 

“I don’t know about that,” Kolivan laughed softly. “I think Gyda’s work is a bit finer than this, actually.” 

Shiro sputtered briefly, then considered it and conceded that yes, a twelve year-old girl’s handiwork was probably better than his own. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Shiro had just finished taking the laundry off of the clothesline and was making his way back to the house with the basket when he spotted a lone figure out on the dock, facing the fjord. He knew from the indigo cloak and the long, white braid hanging down his back that it was Kolivan. Shiro squinted to look past Kolivan, searching the fjord, but there was no sign of any ships on the horizon. It was an unusually overcast day for the summer, with the clouds threatening rain all day but never actually allowing it to fall. The gentle breeze that usually blew over the fjord was swallowed up by a wind that turned the sea choppy with white-caps and threatened to tear his growing locks of hair free from the braid Shiro had finally managed to work them into (after a few weeks of practice). 

Tucking the basket under his arm, Shiro made his way down to the docks. Kolivan didn’t react to him, even when he surely must have heard Shiro’s footsteps on the weathered wooden boards. Shiro stopped beside him and looked at the jarl’s face. His expression was neutral as he stared straight ahead, but his eyes were as dark as the clouds swirling above them. He was worried. 

“Jarl Kolivan?” Shiro asked hesitantly. “Is something wrong? Are there ships coming to Marmora?” He looked out over the fjord, but saw nothing. They had told him that the Galrans in this region would never dare to attack their neighbors, but that the Galrans in other parts of the kingdom were not so kind. But Shiro could not see any enemy ships on the horizon. 

“No,” Kolivan said lowly. “And that is precisely what concerns me.” He took a deep breath and released a long, tense sigh. “They should have been back by now.” 

Shiro looked at him. “Keith?” 

Kolivan nodded. Keith and his warriors had set sail a little over a month ago. Shiro hadn’t any idea how long raids usually took, so he had thought nothing of the passing time. But if Kolivan was worried… 

“What do you think happened to them?” Shiro asked quietly. The words were difficult to get out, now that it felt as though a hand was squeezing around his heart. 

Kolivan was quiet for a long moment before answering. “I’ll make no speculations, lest the Norns that weave our fates mistake them for wishes. I have faith that they will return.” 

With that, he turned and strode away, leaving Shiro alone on the dock. Shiro watched him go, then looked out over the fjord once more. Far out on the horizon, a flicker of lightning illuminated the dark violet clouds for an instant, and a ripple appeared over the water rushing toward them as the storm finally broke. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Full disclosure, Shiro’s lines of _“Who are these gods who haunt my nights and wreck my peace? … You have taught us not to worship false gods, but I have seen them. I have seen Thor in the sky, I have seen the sparks from his anvil, I have witnessed the seas heave with his anger…”_ and _”In the gentle fall of rain from Heaven, I hear my God, but in the thunder, I hear Thor”_ were not something I came up with on my own; Athelstan says them, in a couple of different episodes of “Vikings”, and I put them together and embellished them a bit, because they gave me a lot of feelings. I try not to lift too many lines/situations directly from the source of inspiration, but those just really hit me in the heart)
> 
> Did anyone else learn how to braid on pine needles as a kid, or was that just a thing in my family? Also do you know how hard it is to describe a “french braid” during a time period when France isn’t even called “France” yet?? Although in my research I discovered that the French didn’t even invent the so-called “french braid”, it’s just called that now based on some American magazine story from 1871. That braid has been around a lot longer and in far more places than I thought.
> 
> By the way, Gyda was a character in season 1 of “Vikings”, who is an adorable and precious little sweetheart and I STILL miss her.


	8. Changing Tides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _*Quietly picks up Ælle and Æthelwulf from “Vikings” and drops them off south of the Humber river...* “Shoo, you’re Mercian now”_ (Do I need to classify this as a “crossover” if I include characters from a series outside of VLD? I mean, you don’t _need_ to know who they are, outside of “bad greedy royalty” and Keith’s opposition. I’m just really shitty at making up OCs and needed some one-off villains)
> 
> Also, I don’t know if this would interest anyone, but I made a playlist for this fic, which can be found here on youtube:   
>  https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLRE-bhXr96jatYUXw_utO5IoCkXqvW1fP (Sorry I can't add the link directly, I don't know why it isn't working) I know people are real into Spotify but to be honest I don’t know how Spotify works. And as a person with auditory processing issues, I like to see the words/lyrics because I don’t pick them all up just listening, so I tried to pick videos of the songs where the lyrics (and translations in the case of non-English songs) are either in the video/closed captions, in the description, or at the very least are in one of the top comments by someone nice enough to write them down. I only missed a few where I couldn’t find any with lyrics (or in one case, a song is on there twice because I REALLY liked the official music video but it didn’t have the lyrics anywhere… I guess just pick whichever you’d prefer… or just hear it twice, it really “slaps” as the kids say) The songs are _loosely_ in order of the events in the fic. I may add to it as I figure out the ending chapters. Enjoy my weird taste in music! I guess it’s my apology present to y’all for not posting for a couple weeks (in my defense, life and the world in general has been HELLA crazy. Thank you for being patient with me 💖)

Only a fortnight later, the ships returned. 

Shiro was in the fields behind the house one morning after breakfast when he heard and saw people running past, heading towards the town square and the shore just beyond it. They called out to each other and he managed to catch a few words as a pair of girls ran past: “they’ve returned! Ships flying the Marmoran banner!” 

Shiro hurried to set down his farming hoe, leaning it against the side of the house, and followed the growing crowd. Down at the shore, he craned his neck to look over the heads of the crowd gathered and peered into the distance. There were, in fact, two ships sailing towards them, faint and gray in the distance. 

“How far out do you think they are?” Shiro asked the person beside him, a grizzled old man leaning on his walking stick. 

The old man looked out over the fjord with a sharp, calculating gaze that spoke to his years at sea. “I reckon two, maybe three hours.” He sighed. “Gods above and below, I wish I could be out there with ‘em.” 

A part of Shiro’s heart that had once been small, yet was growing larger, couldn’t help but agree with him (although, perhaps for a different reason). 

Reassured that he would not miss their arrival if he left for a moment, Shiro turned and wove his way through the crowd, jogging back to the longhouse. He found Kolivan in the main hall with a few of his housecarls, looking deep in discussion about something. They turned to look at him when he opened the door, and he at once felt guilty for interrupting their meeting. 

An apology flew to his lips and he started to back away, but Kolivan cut him off. “The ships?” 

Shiro nodded. “Both of them. Just on this side of the mouth of the fjord. People say they will be here in a matter of hours.” 

The serious expressions the jarl and his men wore smoothed into smiles of relief. Kolivan nodded. “Go and prepare food and ale; they will be hungry when they return, and it is too early in the day to simply wait for the feast.” 

“Yes, sir.” Shiro dipped his head and left the longhouse.

He could not help but glance out the window every few minutes as he worked to prepare a simple but hearty midday meal. Really, the only thing that forced him to keep his focus was that Kosmo kept sniffing around, and the wolf-hound was tall enough to easily sneak food right out from under Shiro’s hands if he wasn’t keeping an eye on it. Shooing the beast away had little effect, so he tossed some scraps of meat to the other side of the kitchen to keep the hound occupied for a few moments. Stealing another look out the window, Shiro could see that the ships were hardly any nearer than when he had left, and that most of the crowd had dispersed from the shore to make their own preparations to welcome their loved ones home. It was still too early to tell if victory or tragedy had befallen the ships, but all seemed to agree that a meal would be much needed, either way.

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

The winds might have grown gentle as they approached Marmora, yet Keith felt as though his heart was lifted high on a strong gale. He could see the crowd gathering on the shore, but they were not yet close enough to make out the faces of those gathered. Was Kolivan already among them? Was Shiro?

Thinking about Shiro caused a strange swooping sensation in his gut, like an albatross suddenly diving low to snatch up an unlucky fish. He desperately hoped that Shiro would not think him an oath-breaker, when he learned what had happened on this voyage. Truely, it was not Keith’s fault. Whatever fate the Norns had woven for him overpowered his own desires. Keith had sworn to Shiro on his life that they would only steal from King Oswulf, but the Fates had made that particularly difficult, in not letting him anywhere near the aforementioned king. Still, though, he had tried his best to stick to the spirit of the oath, and take only from those rich enough to be able to survive without it. Like that simpering mayor of the town that was decidedly  _ not  _ Hexham, for starters. Ugh, even just remembering him was enough to make him want to groan and kick something. He had never in his life met such a cowardly excuse for a man. 

_ “Please, I beg of you, spare me!” The richly-dressed man simpered, quivering with his hands clasped in front of him.  _

_ “Before I make any promises, tell me,” Keith smirked as the man’s eyes widened at his use of English. Keith rested the tip of his sword on the flagstone and squatted to be eye-level with the man. “Are you King Oswulf?”  _

_ A gasping sort of laugh escaped the man, somewhat hysterical. “I— no, of course not. I am the lord mayor Lubos—” _

_ “Where is King Oswulf?” Keith cut him off. He didn’t care about lesser parties.  _

_ “Not… not here…” the man sounded confused.  _

_ “Is this not Hexham?” Keith pressed. _

_ The man’s eyes went wide. “This—? Oh dear, Heavens no. This is Olkari-upon-Humber.”  _

_ Keith got to his feet with a frustrated sigh and picked up his sword. “How far along this river to Hexham?”  _

_ The man stared at him, flabbergasted, and Keith had to lift his sword threateningly before the man could be made to speak. “I-I-I’m afraid I cannot answer your question, for Hexham does not lie upon this river.” He let out an undignified squeak of fear and recoiled when Keith slapped down a sheet of parchment in front of him.  _

_ “Show me where we are,” Keith demanded in a growl.  _

_ The man slowly reached out a shaky hand and pointed at the empty space underneath the map, where Shiro had drawn nothing. “H-here, about…” He snatched his hand back before Keith could slice it off. But Keith was too concerned with the map to bother with the blubbering man. They had gone much too far south. The storm must have blown them off course. At this rate, they would not have the supplies to make it back down this Humber River, out to sea, along the coast, and all the way up the Tyne to Hexham. They certainly wouldn’t be able to do it before someone from this city sent riders over land to warn Hexham of their approach.  _

_ Keith snatched up the map with a growl and glared at the pitiful nobleman cowering before him. “Mayor, you said?”  _

_ “Y-yes, the lord mayor of Olkari-upon-Humber, Lub—” _

_ “I don’t care,” Keith told him bluntly. “Give us every bit of gold you have, and we’ll leave. Resist, and we’ll kill you.” _

_ “Of course, of course,” the man nodded quickly. “You can have anything you want. Please, just—” his words petered off and he raised trembling hands to lift the golden chain of office off over his head, setting it on the table in front of Keith and quickly snatching his hands back.  _

_ Keith arched an eyebrow at the gesture, equal parts impressed with how easy that was and disgusted by the man’s cowardice. His eyes caught on the main focal point of the chain, a shield-shaped badge bearing engraved flowers and the silhouette of a fat, misshapen man in profile. Keith gestured to it with the tip of his knife. “That you?” _

_ “Y-yes…” The man’s confusion morphed into a shriek of horror as Keith stabbed his dagger into the center of the badge, the tough iron boring a hole in the soft gold right through the sillhouette’s neck.  _

_ “That’s for Shiro of Arus,” Keith told him, leaning in over the knife.  _

_ The blubbering man blinked up at him. “W-who?”  _

_ Keith scoffed as he got to his feet and scooped up the chain of office. “You’re a shit leader if you don’t know your own people.”  _

The mayor had been quick to offer up enough gold to pay them off, and they had left with little other damage (compared to their raid on the Garrison and the cities in the Baltic lands, at least). They had done the same to two other similarly-sized cities along the river before heading home with a sizable amount of treasure. They had passed by many other, smaller villages, and farmsteads where people gasped in fright and ran from the river at the sight of their ships, but Keith ordered his men to leave such people alone. They wouldn’t be worth their time, he told them. The gods rewarded him for such discretion, as they had not lost a single warrior on this raid. Their ships were heavy in the water, full of the men and women they had carried there plus all the gold and silver, yet they flew just as fast over the sea and brought them home to Marmora.

As they drew close to the shore, Keith could make out Kolivan beaming at him with pride from where he stood on the docks. Shiro stood beside him, smiling as well. Keith had to take his eyes off them while he concentrated on bringing the boat to a halt at the dock — a look at the waves, a feel for the wind, a well-timed swing of the steering oar, and the ship bumped up against the dock gently and with perfect precision, the skill earning cheers from the onlookers. Ropes were thrown from the ship and grabbed by a few volunteers, who tied them to the moorings. Keith stepped out of the boat and Kolivan met him on the dock, and the two clasped arms. 

“Welcome home,” Kolivan smiled. “All of you.” 

“The gods have indeed smiled on us,” Keith replied. “We have plenty of treasure to go around.” 

After the ships were unloaded and everyone was going back to their homes with their loved ones, Keith finally got a spare moment to greet Shiro. The Saxon priest had held himself back at the edge of the crowd during the festivities, but he had smiled as he watched everyone be reunited with their loved ones. 

Keith went over to him, and as he approached, a wide smile warmed Shiro’s face. 

“Welcome back,” Shiro told him. 

“It’s good to be back.” Keith grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Tell me, what do you know of Mercia?” 

Shiro looked taken aback by the question, but lacked the outright suspicion with which he had regarded such questions in the days and weeks following the Jól feast. He simply seemed confused. “Well… it’s one of the four English kingdoms. A rather large one, in fact.” He paused. “Why? Is that where you went?” 

“We were caught in a dreadful storm and ended up far off course,” Keith explained. “We managed to find the mouth of a large river, but its shores were different than your map. Eventually we went ashore to raid a large city that we believed to be Hexham. But upon interrogating the head of the city, we learned we were on a river called the Humber, which is—”

“The border between Northumbria and Mercia…” Shiro finished for him as he realized what he had meant. “You ended up much too far south.”

Keith nodded. “Exactly. We never made it to Hexham, but we did some raiding on both sides of the river, in Northumbria and Mercia. And everywhere we went – Shiro,  _ everywhere _ – there were crops growing, and rich, fertile land under our boots.” He sighed wistfully. “I am a farmer, and the son of a farmer. I know the land. That black earth is far greater a treasure than any gold we could have brought back.”

“I suppose that is why you have brought some back on your boots and cloak?” Shiro teased, his lips quirking up in amusement. “Come inside. We have food ready for you – that is, if Kosmo has not stolen it from the hearth pot.” 

“He is too smart to burn his nose,” Keith chuckled, walking beside Shiro toward the house. “Oh, and I have something for you.” He reached into the small leather pouch hung on his belt and pulled out the centerpiece of the mayor’s chain of office. The rest of it had been dismantled and tossed into some sack, probably bound to be melted down, but Keith had saved that one piece. It still had a hole bored through the center where his knife had stabbed it. 

He took Shiro’s hand and placed the golden piece in his palm. “From the jarl— lord mayor of Oak-reed-on-Humber.” 

“Olkari-upon-Humber…” Shiro stared at it for a moment, thumb rubbing over the hole bored through the portrait’s head. His brow furrowed and he looked up at Keith, wary. “Did you kill him?” 

Keith snorted. “I wanted to, with how miserably he cowered. But no. I merely rattled him a bit. Pierced his image with my blade and told him it was revenge for his treatment of Shiro of Arus.” 

Emotions flashed over Shiro’s face – shock, confusion, curiosity… then finally settling on amusement. “Really… and what did he say to that?” 

Keith shrugged. “The fool didn’t know who you were, nor your village. Probably can’t be bothered to look past his own piggish nose.” 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Shiro chuckled. “Considering Arus was not part of Olkari’s jurisdiction.” He laughed when Keith playfully shoved at him, growling something about it being the best he could do. “I appreciate the sentiment, Keith. Thank you.”

That warm smile was doing something funny to Keith’s heart. Or perhaps he was just tired from the journey. 

He bumped Shiro’s shoulder playfully and headed towards the house. “Come on. We’d best get back, before Kosmo really does eat my food.” 

On the way back to the house, Keith spotted Kolivan overseeing the weighing and inventory of the treasure. His husband noticed him and smiled, giving him a nod. Keith made a beeline over to him and tucked an arm around the back of his waist, leaning close to his ear. “I missed you,” he whispered. 

“I missed you as well,” Kolivan murmured, turning enough to press their foreheads together. “Go and eat something, my love. I’ll be in shortly.” 

“Don’t take too long. I have much to talk with you about.” Keith told him quietly. “Bring my mother, too. We could use her wisdom.”

“Ah, then it is not the sort of ‘talking’ we might do in the bedroom?” Kolivan lifted an eyebrow. 

Keith chuckled lowly. “That’ll be later.” He squeezed him about the waist before leaving Kolivan to his work. As he walked back over to Shiro, he noticed the priest look away quickly, as if hiding that he had been watching them. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Keith ate ravenously after such a long time at sea. By the time he was nearly finished, Kolivan had returned from managing the treasure. He brought Krolia with him, the shield-maiden still dressed in her breeches and tunic with her hunting bow in her hand, which she laid on the table in favor of wrapping her son up in a long, tight hug and welcoming him home. Shiro would have smiled at the sweet display if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with holding back the wolf-hound who was sniffing at the last scraps of meat on Keith’s plate while his back was turned. 

Once they had all taken their seats around the table and Shiro had served the ale before turning away to wash the empty dishes (much to Kosmo’s ire, leaving the wolf-hound to lounge at his master’s feet pouting at not being able to steal his food), Keith told them of the sights he had seen in England. 

“There was this one city, I believe it was in Northumbria… Jórvík, I think it was called?” Keith paused to cast a questioning look toward Shiro.

Shiro stopped and had to think hard about it. That did not sound like a Saxon city, but rather a name that had been twisted by a Galran tongue into an entirely different word. He started thinking about known cities and large market towns in the region around the Humber that might sound even remotely like that, until— “...You mean  _ York _ ?” He asked Keith.

Keith considered it, then nodded decisively. “I believe it was that one, yes. What do you know of it?”

“Not much, besides the name,” Shiro admitted. “Legend has it it was built by the Romans. Alcuin of St. Peter’s of York was the archbishop for a time, and even served as a leading advisor of Charlemagne the Great.” He noticed the quizzical look Keith was giving him and changed tactics. “What did you find there?”

Keith’s eyes brightened. “There were markets everywhere, so it must be a strong economic seat in the region. It is located at a strategic point on the river, and despite its large size has only moderate defenses that would be easy to overcome with enough manpower.”

While Shiro was marveling at the vast difference of information two individuals might notice about the same place, Keith was already speaking to the others again, eyes glittering with an eager sort of determination as he turned back to his mother and husband. “And all around that city — all around that river and its tributaries, and very likely beyond that as well — the lands were full of virgin forests and rich, fertile farmland.”

Shiro shook his head to himself with a slight smile as he turned back to his chores, charmed by Keith’s enthusiasm despite not quite understanding it. Truthfully, Shiro thought to himself as he washed the last dish and dried his hands off, he didn’t know why Keith was so fixated on the farmland. Until, that is, he heard him say, “...and a great deal of the land was unsettled, ripe for the taking. We could take some of our people, start a settlement there — if we could not take Jórvík, at least we could start our own settlement on those virgin lands of Mercia. Then our people would never go hungry.” 

Shiro paused and looked over his shoulder. Was such a thing possible? He knew, of course, that kingdoms had long been embroiled in the constant ebb and flow of expanding their borders and fighting off resistance. There were even stories — sometimes indistinguishable from legends — of the far-reaching empire created by the supposedly-invincible armies of the Romans, who had left only ghostly remains of buildings and walls behind when they disappeared. But he had never heard of such a thing in this day and age, especially considering the vast distance between Marmora and England.

The three Galrans didn’t pay any mind to Shiro watching them, all of their attention focused on the conversation at hand.

“And you think these Mercians will simply hand over swaths of arable land?” Kolivan shook his head, doubtful.

“Of course not,” Keith said. “But perhaps they could be bargained with. Perhaps we could form some sort of alliance with them, offer our protection—”

“You think their king will accept such a deal?” Kolivan cut him off, the flatness of his voice indicating his doubt. 

“I don’t know,” Keith admitted, looking frustrated. “I know nothing of their king.” 

There was a beat of silence, then all eyes turned to Shiro. He released a slow exhale through his nose; of course, he should have suspected this, when he was allowed to stay for a meeting of such a secretive nature. 

“King Ælle is the king of Mercia,” he said slowly, choosing his words as carefully as he might his footing on a frozen lake. “At least, he was two years ago. He came to power when his father, King Æthelbald the Great, was killed in battle. I’m afraid I don’t know much more about him than that.”

Keith’s eyes hardened and he glared down at the table-top. Shiro hated to feel he had disappointed him, but he had never been to Mercia himself, nor did he know much about its king.

Kolivan lifted a brow thoughtfully at his words. “Is there reason to believe that would have changed in only two years?”

“Possibly,” Shiro admitted. “The crowns of all the English kingdoms, but especially that of Mercia, change hands frequently. King Ecgberht of Wessex held the Mercian crown for only a matter of months before he was deposed by the very man he had himself deposed.”

“Then the kingdom is unstable. Possibly even fractured.” Keith leaned forward, eyes bright. “We could take one of those fragments and make it our own. Or, if the king’s hold on his kingdom is weak, we could offer him protection in exchange for land.”

“And why would he accept our help, rather than that of the neighboring kingdoms?” Krolia asked. 

“Those neighboring kingdoms – Wessex in particular – are often the ones threatening to take over Mercia,” Shiro offered. At least, from what whispers and rumors he heard among the people of Northumbria. Rumors and hear-say were discouraged among the clergy, but the younger monks still whispered among themselves, snatching glimpses of the outside world and its doings when they left the monastery on errands. “There is a chance he might be willing to reach an agreement with parties with whom he has not been waging war with for centuries.” 

“A chance,” Kolivan repeated dryly. “We don’t risk our lives on chances.” His gaze settled on Keith, whose fingers tightened just slightly on his arms where they were crossed over his chest. 

“If I never took the chance to sail west, our lives would be very different than they are in this moment.” Keith looked up. “Would you say for certain that they would be better?” 

Kolivan frowned at him. Shiro felt as though a chill had swept through the room. He got the distinct sense that there was some other, unspoken part of this conversation that seemed to pass between them, or perhaps that it was not the first time they had spoken of this. 

Krolia laid a hand on her son’s shoulder. “The past is already woven, and it does not do to dwell on it. Let us look at the paths that are in front of us now. If we were to settle in Mercia —  _ if _ ,” she stressed again as Kolivan opened his mouth. “If we were to do so, we would have to send more than just warriors. Farmers, blacksmiths, tradesmen… enough men and women that a secondary leader would be needed, should something happen to the first.” 

Keith looked at Kolivan and noticed the worried twist of his lips. “You were once our greatest warrior, and you are still our greatest leader,” he told him. “I can lead our people in battle, but if I were to fall, you are the only one who could keep them together.” 

Kolivan’s grip tightened around his cup as he thought about it. “Although I do not wish to think of such a thing, I must admit, that is true,” he said softly. “A new settlement can be a dangerous thing. I would trust no one other than myself and you to handle such an operation.” His eyes flicked around the room, meeting each of their gazes. “That is why no one outside of those of us who are here now must hear of this. We have many loyal citizens, but if word gets out, someone may use our moment of division to take either Marmora or the new settlement. Do not speak of this once we leave here.”

“Then you have decided to do it?” Keith asked.

Kolivan spared him a reproachful look. “I have decided nothing yet. We don’t have enough information on this kingdom or its king to make a decision that will not put our people at risk. Without such knowledge—”

“There is only death, I know.” Keith crossed his arms and looked away, refusing to meet Kolivan’s stern glare. 

Krolia dipped a finger into her cup and drew a line on the surface of the table, the water darkening the wood in a Y-shape. “Whether you decide to go or not,” she said, tapping each branch of the Y, “we should discuss every possibility now, so that we have as much preparation as we can for any scenario,” she tapped the base of the Y and then drew her finger along one branch of it, then turned to Kolivan. “If you were to go, who would lead Marmora in your stead?” Krolia asked him. 

“I would select a proxy from among my housecarls. Any of them are loyal enough to be trusted to not usurp me in my absence,” Kolivan replied. “Antok has always been my right-hand man.”

“Antok is a skilled berserkr, but he is not a leader,” Krolia said patiently. 

“Ulaz, then,” Kolivan said.

Keith shook his head. “Ulaz has knowledge of the Frankish and Germanic kingdoms from his travels. I would want him to come with us.” 

Kolivan released a tense sigh through his nose. Silence fell over the group, all of them deep in thought. 

“If you had an heir…” Keith began, his voice quiet.

“He would still only be a handful of years old at most, and nowhere near old enough to rule on his own,” Kolivan cut him off, his words clipped. Keith flinched, and Kolivan reached across the table to gently pry his hand out of the twist of his arms and take it in his own, squeezing him. His voice softened. “Do not blame yourself for this. As Krolia said, the threads of the past have already been woven.”

Keith was quiet for a long while, then he slowly looked over at his mother. “You are wiser than any I know, and have a clear sense of what is right and wrong. You could lead Marmora in Kolivan’s stead.” 

“Settling new lands would require spending many more months and years than a simple raid,” Kolivan said. “I would never separate the two of you for so long.” 

Keith looked at him. “It takes a week to reach Mercia. It takes twice that to reach King Zarkon’s longhouse in North Diabazaal, and yet we have made the trip.” 

“The time and distance is not as important as creating better lives for our people,” Krolia added. “If that is what takes my son far from my reach, then I would be proud of his accomplishments from afar. But,” she looked at Kolivan seriously. “If other jarls learn that you have installed a shield-maiden on your throne, we may find ourselves vulnerable to raids from within Galra.” 

“There are other shield-maidens who have taken jarldom for themselves. Ladnok in the north, Trugg in the east…” Keith reminded her. “And we are not without allies ourselves. Ranveig would surely come to your aid, and he would have no trouble bolstering support along this entire peninsula.” 

Krolia tapped the table top thoughtfully. “I would do it, if it came to it. My loyalty to Kolivan is unwavering.” She ran her finger down the nearly-dried Y back to the base of the two branches. “So there still remains the matter of if we should even attempt to settle this land or not.” 

“And we don’t know enough to make a proper decision there.” Kolivan crossed his arms. 

“And a mere two years ago we didn’t even know this place existed,” Keith shot back. “Just because we don’t know something now doesn’t mean we cannot learn.” 

“And how do you propose we do that?” Kolivan asked dryly. 

“We conduct another raid, next season,” Keith said. “It will look, to everyone else, like an ordinary raid. But I will be scouting the land for suitable places to settle, and gauging the defenses of those lands. I will also meet with the king and determine what approach – negotiation, intimidation, or force – will best be suited to acquire such lands. And when I return, we will make a decision about how to move forward.” 

Kolivan frowned. “This is a very lengthy operation you are proposing, Keith. A lot can go wrong in so much time.” 

“Or a lot of preparation, resources, and knowledge can be gained,” Keith countered.

“It does sound like the safest course of action,” Krolia said slowly. “After all, if Keith meets with the king and judges him to be too difficult, he can always raid as usual and then return to us, and we can call the whole thing off.” She looked up and flashed a small smile at her son. “Somehow, though, I cannot imagine anything being too difficult for you.” 

“You are blinded by your love for him,” Kolivan grunted, fixing the two of them with a stern look. 

Krolia’s eyes snapped over to the jarl, sharp and dangerous. “Are you not guilty of the same, when you wish to keep him safe by your side?” She stood up and fetched a wet rag from beside the wash bucket, wiping the table down and erasing even the slightest sign of their conversation. “Doubt the clarity of my mind again, Kolivan, and I will challenge you to a duel.” 

Kolivan let out a huff of dry laughter. “Yes, it would be in good conscience that I would be able to leave my lands in your care.” 

Keith snorted and drained the last of his ale before scooting his chair back and patting his thigh to call Kosmo up to him. He scratched behind the wolf-hound’s ears, smiling to himself as the beast laid his furry head on Keith’s thigh. 

If the sudden lightening of the heavy air settled over the kitchen wasn’t enough to clue him in that the conversation had ended, the obvious dispersal of their attention made it clear enough. Shiro started to collect the empty cups from the table, when Kolivan fixed him with a stern look. 

“I hope you don’t need to be told twice,” he said lowly. “But this conversation must not leave this room. You are to speak of it to no one. I will not have one man’s loose lips bring about the downfall of everything I have built here in these lands. Do you understand?”

Shiro nodded solemnly. “Yes sir.” He had noticed, when the conversation had turned so serious and hushed, that any other slave or servant would have been sent away from such secret discussions. That he had been allowed to stay showed that they placed a great deal of trust in him. He would never wish to betray that trust.

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

There was, of course, a grand feast that night to welcome their warriors home that evening. Their poor town had no skalds to sing praises of their great deeds, but the warriors themselves did a fine enough job of regaling the townsfolk with tales of their journey. They had not lost a single warrior on this raid, which led to a fair amount of over-exaggeration in their stories (they had certainly not met any dragons or trolls in their journey), but their crewmates were not above yelling over the offending “sword wielder who fancies themself a poet!” and someone else stepping up to take over, only for it to happen again, to the amusement and laughter of their audience. It was a joyous night filled with revelry, and when the songs turned to dancing, Keith left his place at his throne and made his way over to Shiro, who was moving between the long tables refilling cups of ale. 

Keith threw an arm around his shoulders and noticed that the movement hardly caused the monk to even budge, where such drunken force might have made him stumble before. “Ulaz tells me you’re learning how to fight,” he said, pointing at him with the hand holding his cup. 

Shiro smiled and lifted the pitcher to top off his half-empty drink. “He has been teaching me to defend myself, yes. I would not call it fighting.” 

Keith squinted at him, willing the two Shiros in his eyes to line up correctly. “You’re learning how to use a sword, axe, and shield, are you not? Those are tools of war.” 

“Or of defense,” Shiro pointed out. 

Keith thought about it, but thinking hurt his head so he stopped. “Both, perhaps,” he acknowledged, without really bothering to think on it much more than that. 

“Mm,” Shiro hummed. There was amusement sparkling in his eyes and in the curve of his smile, and he was watching Keith as if he was humoring him. 

“Anyway, I’m glad.” Keith adjusted his arm around the back of his neck, practically hanging off him like a tree. “We should spar. Tomorrow. I want to see what you’ve learned.” 

“Are you sure you’ll be in any state to spar tomorrow?” Shiro’s smile widened. He didn’t look intimidated in the least. 

Keith frowned and pointed at him (and if his finger wavered, it was because there were still two Shiros that wouldn’t quite line up, those bastards). “How dare you. I… I stole a feast out from under the nose of a sleeping giant…” 

“Wasn’t that Hunk?” Shiro asked. “And it was a piece of bread and slice of smoked meat, if I recall Lance’s story.” 

“Lance is full of shit,” Keith groused, upset that he had been caught. “And it  _ felt  _ like a feast, after those weeks at sea.”

“I bet,” Shiro chuckled. “It is a good thing you can eat your fill now.” 

“Mm,” Keith nodded, and as the two Shiros finally lined up, he found himself looking at his lips. Were they always such a nice color? Had anyone ever told him that? Keith licked his own lips and took a long draught of his drink to cool his head. It didn’t quite work. “Even so, I still find myself hungering,” he tore his eyes away from those lips before he could catch sight of the surprise flickering over Shiro’s expression. Probably dismissal, too, but he couldn’t make himself see such a look on Shiro’s face (not again). Instead, he looked across the room to where his husband was chatting with Antok. 

Struck by a new thought, Keith turned back to Shiro with a bright grin. “So, how did you and Kolivan get along in my absence? You’re not still frightened of him?”

Something flashed across Shiro’s face too quick for Keith’s ale-muddled mind to keep up with. “I… I was never  _ frightened  _ of him,” he said slowly. “I perhaps found him intimidating at first. He is a difficult man to read.” 

Keith tilted his head and squinted at him, puzzled. He could read Kolivan just fine, always had. “But you like him now? You have a bond of  _ freondscip _ ?” He laid a touch more emphasis on the word for ‘friendship’, stressing it without really knowing why. 

Shiro looked at him like he was uncertain what he meant, despite the obvious word in his native language. Or like he thought Keith meant to use a different word, one that he hadn’t taught him. 

“We get along fine now, yes,” Shiro said finally. Was that an answer to his question? Keith couldn’t remember. Shiro lifted a hand to his hair, fingers brushing over the braid that kept his long bangs out of his face; white bangs woven into the black of his growing hair. “He taught me how to braid my hair.” 

Keith reached up to feel, only half-noticing the way Shiro went still as a statue at the action. He clumsily patted the woven strands of hair, black and white together. “It looks nice,” he beamed. 

“Thank you,” Shiro smiled. His gaze drifted over to the other side of the hall. “I had a good teacher, after all.” 

Keith followed his gaze and found it led to where Kolivan was talking with Ulaz, a rare smile gracing his lips. Something warm burned in him, but it was pride, not jealousy. Of course Kolivan was a good teacher. The best, in fact. And seeing him standing next to Ulaz, Keith was happy that there was no finer pair than they to teach Shiro their ways in his absence. 

He turned back to Shiro with a grin. “Let’s spar tomorrow. I want to see what Ulaz has taught you.”

To his surprise, something like fear flashed over Shiro’s expression for a fraction of a heartbeat, his smile slipping briefly before fixing itself (though it lacked the true happiness it had before). “If that’s what you wish, sir. Please excuse me, I must get back to my duties.” He lifted his pitcher in explanation, then carefully removed himself from under Keith’s arm and hurried away. 

Keith stared after him, confusion rooting him to the ground. He didn’t have long to think on it, though, before Regris was looping an arm around his neck and drawing him over to where some people had brought out a hnefatafl board, demanding Keith be his partner, and Keith quickly forgot his worries about the strange change of air around Shiro. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think you guys are by now familiar with my slightly-2010-ff.net-style crack-y author’s ending notes that I come up with because my brain is hardwired for humor even if the story is not comedy. I came up with two for this chapter and couldn’t decide between them so you get both.
> 
>  _*dramatic hand-sweep as if reading headline*_ : “local gay idiot drunkenly thinks swords = flirting, badly mistimes flirtation and strikes fear into other local gay idiot”
> 
> OR
> 
> Keith’s POV: _my husband is so hot. Shiro’s pretty hot too. You know what else is hot? Adrenaline-fueled swordplay that devolves into grappling/wrestling. Mmmmm..._  
>  Shiro’s POV: _Oh my god he caught me looking at his husband he’s gonna fucking murder me shit fuck fuck fuck I am screwed…_
> 
> By the way, I fucked with language and time for the sake of clarity. The English city of York was actually known as Eoforwic at the time this story takes place (which, contrary to its alphabet-soup-looking spelling, was pronounced more like “york” than you might expect). After that, certain events caused the name to be changed to Jórvík, and _that_ is where we got the middle-to-modern English spelling of York. Along with a whole slew of other Anglo-Saxon words whose spelling got majorly simplified by certain new folks who didn’t have time for all them funky vowels. *jazz hands* Fun facts that may or may not become relevant to later events in the story…


	9. Helvegen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-specific content warning:** this chapter contains a ritual animal (cow) sacrifice, more up-close than the off-handed mentions of others in past chapters. I suppose it counts as “graphic” because Shiro gets… a little preoccupied with the sight of blood, so the narration focuses on it. But I also _really_ don’t like gore myself (I had to close my eyes numerous times while watching “the Witcher” recently) so it’s not super graphic, and it is quite quick and then over with. That being said, do take care if you are sensitive to such things, especially around the **two paragraphs** near the end of **part 3** , beginning with _“Shiro swallowed thickly and stepped forward...”_ and going until _“they set sail not long after the sacrifice was complete...”_
> 
> The chapter title comes from the song “Helvegen” (the Road to Hel) by Wardruna. That’s Hel with one L, not two. AKA the Norse pagan underworld, which is more of a general afterlife kinda situation that’s just not _quite_ as good as Valhalla but isn’t the _worst_ place to be, as contrasted with Christian two-L’s Hell which is a very bad place to be. Helvegen is a beautiful and haunting song about setting out for battle and not knowing how you will be remembered. I’m in love with both the original by Wardruna and the live version they did with Aurora (both can be found on the playlist I made, if you’re interested... links aren't working anymore and I DON'T KNOW WHY, but it's here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLRE-bhXr96jatYUXw_utO5IoCkXqvW1fP ).

The wheel of the year turned once more. The harvest was brought in, the winds grew stronger and colder, and the snow crept down from the mountains until they were enveloped in cold and white once more. They held their feasts, played their games, sang their songs and told their stories around the fire during the dark winter months.

After another long, hard winter, the snow finally retreated from all but the highest mountain tops, the winds blew gentler, and the first sprouts and green leaves of their crops were beginning to poke through the warming earth. Between all the planting and preparations for the summer raids, Keith had been spending many hours training Shiro in the art of the sword, shield, axe, and knife. He already had the basics under his belt from Ulaz, but after nearly an entire turn of the year-wheel, he had honed his skills to that of a true warrior. He was a quick learner, and Keith was constantly impressed with not only his skill but also his drive to improve himself. 

“Not too bad, shield-maiden,” Keith teased him, stepping back after parrying a blow. 

Shiro huffed out a laugh and adjusted his grip on the sword. He came at Keith again, quick as a viper, and Keith just barely managed to get his round-shield up in time. He blocked the hit with a grunt and shoved, having to really dig in his heels to push him off; two years after Shiro had traded his books and manuscripts for tools of farming and war, he had grown stronger and learned to properly use the body he had been gifted with (And what a gift it was…) 

Keith feinted and spun away to put some distance between them again, looking at Shiro over the top of his shield. “Would you come to England with me, if I asked you?” 

Shiro faltered, looking surprised by the question. “Wouldn’t you be afraid of me running off?”

“Would you?” Keith asked in return. 

Shiro considered it, and Keith didn’t attack while he had the opportunity of distraction. He did grip his sword a little tighter, but it was more from nerves as he awaited Shiro’s answer. 

“I can’t say I would, no,” Shiro said slowly. “Truthfully, there is nothing there for me, other than a ‘homeland’ that is a home only in the sense that I was born there. Every place I called home there – my village of Arus, the Garrison monastery… – they are all gone.” He looked around the square at the other Galrans sparring around them. Somehow, despite the yelling and clanging of swords and axes, he looked to be at peace. “This is my home now. And I cannot imagine leaving it.” 

Keith couldn’t help but smile as his heart warmed at that. “Good,” he said, his voice sincere. “Then, would you come with me?” 

Shiro smiled at him. “I would go with you to the ends of the Earth.” 

Despite Shiro not moving and Keith still holding his round-shield in front of him, it felt as if Keith had suddenly been struck in the chest by something with all the force of a club, but was strangely very warm. Something that spread outwards like a poison through him… or rather, like a balm. It was not an unpleasant feeling, though – quite the opposite. 

Keith grinned past his racing heart (it was probably just the adrenaline of sparring). “I’m glad. We won’t sail to the ends of the Earth this time, but perhaps the next time.” 

“Wasn’t England considered ‘the unknown lands to the west’ and thought to be off the edge of the Earth for you only a few years ago?” Shiro lifted his chin with a teasing glint in his eyes. 

Keith growled playfully and adjusted his grip on his sword. “Ah, a smart mouth – yet another defining feature of a shield-maiden,” he remarked dryly, then charged forward. 

Shiro laughed as he parried the blow.

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

In little time at all, the summer raids were upon them once more. This time, Shiro didn’t just help with the preparations, he was a  _ part _ of them. When he worked with the others to brush dark, tar-like varnish on the ship to waterproof it, he took notice of the construction of the hull and rowing benches, knowing that he would soon be sitting in one of them. When he rolled up the newly-made sails and carried them down to the ships, he imagined what they would look like unfurled and full of salty wind. He learned to tie sailing knots and also learned when to use each one and why. Krolia even made him a lamellar shirt of his own, and showed him how to stitch the iron rings to the thick leather in case he would need to do any repairs himself. They outfitted him with a sword, axe, and shield of his own, and taught him how to properly sharpen and care for all of them. He was given a dark woolen cloak that was finely-woven to keep out the cold and damp during the sea voyage, a pair of thick woolen socks, and a pair of new boots, as the ones he currently wore (themselves far from new when he received them) were beginning to wear thin on heel and ball of the foot. Nearly everything in his possession was actually something of Keith or Kolivan’s that either no longer fit or they found they could do without enough to loan to Shiro. He could not technically own any of it as a slave, nor was it common to make something specifically for a slave’s use. The boots, then, surprised him. 

When Shiro brought this up, Keith just shrugged. “My old ones, even those that were loose from wear, were too small for you. Kolivan’s were too big. Perhaps for a single day of wear, that would be alright, but you will be living in your clothes for a month or more – day and night, save for bathing, as we must be ready for battle at any time. You should have a pair of boots that fit you properly.” 

Shiro smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” 

“And one more thing,” Keith said, crossing the room to the dresser and taking something out. He hid it in his hand before coming back to Shiro with a warm smile. “This, too, is for you. Not a loan, but a gift, from Kolivan and myself.” He uncurled his fingers and revealed a necklace – a simple cord of dark leather holding a single, iron pendant shaped like the head of a hammer. It was Thor’s hammer, Mjölnir; the thing which the god brought down on his anvil to create lightning and storms, and the token that so many here in Galra wore to honor him. 

“It made me happy to hear you say that you think of Marmora as your home,” Keith told him. “Kolivan and I… we think of you as family. You are one of us. And I noticed that you have not worn that cross of your Jesus for some time now.” 

He was right, Shiro knew; it only ever earned him questions, and once the silver had begun to tarnish where it lay against his chest, Shiro had taken it off, scrubbed it as clean as he could, and tucked it between the pages of his Gospel book, where it would be safe. If he was being honest, he was not sure if the tarnish had come about from the sweat born from all the hard work he did here, or from the fact that he listened too attentively to the pagans’ stories and saw signs of their gods in the world around him. 

Keith went on, oblivious to his inner thoughts. “You will sail with us tomorrow, and fight with us soon after that. I want you to have the protection of our gods. I will do my best to keep you safe, but sometimes, the fates the Norns weave for us are unable to be grasped and shaped by human hands. I want you to be protected, in this life and in the next.” 

Would he be?  _ Could  _ he be? Or would he be doomed to a purgatory between Hell and Hel for the sin of walking the line too carefully and refusing to fall to either side?

Shiro managed a smile as he lifted his eyes to meet Keith’s. “Thank you, Keith. And my thanks to Kolivan as well. Your gift means a great deal to me.” 

Keith gave him a warm smile and unspooled the leather cord, raising his hands to slip the necklace on over Shiro’s head. He settled the cord so that the hammer laid on top of the collar of his tunic, and rested his hands on Shiro’s shoulders for a moment. The heat of his palms burned through the fabric like fire, and Shiro found twin sensations of gratefulness and mourning war in his chest when Keith finally released him and stepped back.

Later, as Shiro was finishing packing in the privacy of his room, he looked down at the hammer again. It was simply made, with no carvings, etchings, or embellishments, and might have been mistaken for a cross that was just abnormally short on the bottom, by someone who did not know better. But Shiro did know better; this was a pagan symbol. The symbol of the pagan god Thor. Keith and the others saw it as a symbol of protection and strength. His teachers back at the Garrison would have seen it as a token of a false god and sign of heresy. Shiro… Shiro did not know how he viewed it, now.

He knelt beside his bed and carefully pried up the loose floorboard. The cloth bundle of his monk’s robes was covered in dust and dirt that had fallen between the cracks of the floorboards, and he winced as he unwrapped the robes from around the book, realizing just how long it had been since he had taken it out. Brushing the book off with careful strokes, he opened it to the middle where his silver cross lay between the pages. He hadn’t noticed when he placed it in there, but the page it was pressed between was painted with a curling serpentine creature wrapped around the first letter of the illuminated text, a fearsome thing not unlike the sea dragons the Vikings carved onto the front prow of their ships. 

Shiro picked up the necklace and untied the worn, leather cord. After a quick glance behind him, he placed the silver cross against the pulse point of his left wrist – the closest to his heart – and wrapped the cord around his wrist, tying it there. On top of that, he wrapped a spare band of cloth he used to use to tie back his hair before it grew long enough to braid. The cloth was thin enough to hide under a sleeve, narrow enough to not be mistaken for a bandage that might arouse suspicion, yet wide enough to conceal what was tied underneath. 

Shiro closed up the book, wrapped it up in the robes, and placed it back under the floorboards once more, then continued packing. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

The sun rose early in the summer. Still, the town was caught up in a frenzy of activity even before the early daybreak. The ships were loaded up, families and lovers embraced for what could be the last time, and warriors washed their hair and faces with water blessed by the village’s shaman priestess. By the time the sun was just beginning to creep over the high mountains that ringed the fjord, everyone had gathered in the square in front of the longhouse. Kolivan stood at the head of the group, Keith beside him holding a shield with a long, sharp knife tucked behind it, out of sight from all but those standing behind him. While a servant led a white cow into the square from the barn, Shiro stood between Krolia and Ulaz; Krolia would be staying to watch over her farm and help Kolivan in her son’s place, but Ulaz would be going on the raid, as would Thace. The two housecarls were usually busy assisting Kolivan back in Marmora, but this time, they would be raiding with the rest of them. Their raiding party was larger than the previous year, and three times as big as two years prior when they descended upon the Garrison monastery, with over fifty warriors accompanying them on two ships. 

Kolivan stepped forward and a hush fell over the crowd. He spoke in a clear voice, loud enough to be heard by all gathered there. “Odin, the all-father, sacrificed first his eye and then his sanity when he hung himself by his feet from the great ash tree Yggdrasil for nine days and nine nights. He did so in order to gain knowledge of all the worlds, all the realms, and all the power of the runes. We humans cannot hope to gain such vast knowledge in our short lifetimes. But today, we make this sacrifice to ask for Odin’s wisdom, guidance, and protection. Our friends and loved ones will sail west, not only to raid but to explore and seek knowledge about the world beyond our scope. They may meet battle. They may meet their ends and go on to dine in Valhalla, or they may return home to us safe and with treasures of gold and knowledge. Only the gods know what fates the Norns have woven in our tapestry of destiny. In making this sacrifice, we ask Odin and the gods to watch over our warriors. Bless them with courage and wisdom in battle, and in fair winds and seas as they sail to this foreign land. All hail, Odin.”

“All hail, Odin,” the rest of the crowd intoned. 

“All hail, Odin,” Shiro echoed the words along with the rest of them, because he knew he should and because he could feel several sets of eyes on him, watching and waiting. 

Kolivan took hold of the cow’s rope halter, and the servant boy darted off into the crowd. It was an unexpected move; the jarl was always the one to perform the sacrifice, and everyone had expected him to reach for the knife Keith held. Why  _ was _ Keith holding the knife, many wondered quietly among themselves, when he ought to only hold the vessel, and the jarl ought to hold the knife? But Kolivan simply positioned the cow’s head so as to block its line of sight as Keith stepped forward, drawing the blade away from the shield and tucking it behind his back to keep it concealed from the cow’s view. Then, he turned to Shiro and held out the shield, its backside up like the bowl it would serve as. 

“You are the keeper of much knowledge that will guide us on our journey,” Keith told him. “We would not be here now, nor setting out again, if it wasn’t for your guidance.” 

Shiro’s eyes widened. “You… you want me to…?” 

“Yes.” Keith nodded, his smile genuine and warm and at complete odds with the task he was asking Shiro to perform. 

Shiro didn’t have to be especially well-versed in Galran practices to know that this was an honor far, far above his position as a slave. By all rights, he shouldn’t be allowed to even raid with them, let alone be offered a part in their sacrifice to their most important god. And yet, here they were, Kolivan and Keith and all of Marmora, looking at him – looking  _ to  _ him. 

Shiro swallowed thickly and stepped forward, willing his hands not to tremble as he took the upturned shield. He positioned himself between Keith and the beast’s shoulder, where he had seen Keith stand countless times. Kolivan turned the creature’s head away, and Keith brought the knife out from behind his back. The sharpened blade caught the mid-morning sun and cast the light straight into Shiro’s eyes, blinding him for a moment, but he didn’t let himself blink; they would only accuse him of shying away from the sight of the blood. The drums rattled in his ears, in his chest, in his brain and his heart, drowning out the ringing that sprang up in his head as Keith sliced the knife across the beast’s neck, his movements quick and efficient. A few drops of red fell to the earth below before Shiro managed to get the vessel underneath. 

Blood splashed into the shield, soaking his forearms and splattering on his chest, leaving him looking like he had already fought before the battle had even begun. Keith was drenched beside him, as was Kolivan’s left side. Their boots and the earth beneath their feet were soon drenched as well, as the beast fell with a groan that was barely audible over the cheers that rose up around them. To Shiro’s eyes, the whole world was washed in red, like ink spilled over a page of an illuminated manuscript. The drums matched pace with his beating heart. The ringing in his head grew louder as his head felt smaller and fainter. The shield and the burden it held were heavy in his arms, and the hammer resting on his chest felt heavier still. The small silver cross, tucked under a scrap of cloth and his now blood-soaked leather arm guard, weighed on him the heaviest of all of them. 

They set sail not long after the sacrifice was complete. As Shiro took his place among the rowers, he looked up to take in the town of Marmora once more. He hoped it would not be the last time he saw it, but he was not ignorant of the danger they would face. The seas could be treacherous, storms could dash their ships to pieces… and that was just the crossing. Once they arrived, there would surely be some sort of battle, even if they went with the intention to simply negotiate and bargain with the king. 

As he scanned the thatched rooftops and wooden buildings with their carved and painted door frames, his gaze caught on the door of the longhouse, where Keith and Kolivan had just emerged. Before making their way down to the docks, Kolivan caught Keith by the waist and pulled him in close. He cupped his cheek and murmured something, then Keith leaned up to press their lips together in a last, lingering kiss. Some feeling – less foreign than he would care to admit – stirred in Shiro’s chest and he wondered what it would feel like to be either of them, kissing the other. Kissing both of them. 

He turned away before he could dwell too much on that thought. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

The winds were fair as they set sail, which everyone said was a good omen. They rowed until they were a safe distance from shore, out in the middle of the fjord, then unfurled the sails and let the winds carry them out to sea. Galra, they told him, was shaped like a fishhook, with Marmora settled near the barb on the inside of the hook. They would follow the line of the land north until they reached the northernmost point. Upon rounding that peninsula, they would encounter the vast and unforgiving North Sea, through which they would sail west using the sun-board – a round board with a wooden pin in the center that would float in a pail of water and by which they would measure the angle of the sun at its highest point at noon. They would continue holding their course as best they could until reaching land, at which point they would use a map Shiro had carefully drawn of the entire eastern coast of England, as best as he could remember it. It had helped exponentially to recall that a rough approximation of England had been drawn on one of the pages of Shiro’s gospel book, surrounded by rays of light and other such symbols of God’s grace upon the four kingdoms. He had used that, plus what he could remember from being commissioned to embellish a cartographer’s map made for a wealthy lord several years ago, to draw the most detailed map he could for Keith. The Galrans didn’t use parchment, preferring to carve their runes on wood or stone, so Shiro had had to produce the parchment himself from calf-skin under the curious watch of Keith and Kolivan. They had also taught him their runes, so that he could label the map in a way that was legible to all on the raiding party. It was this map – an amalgamation of both cultures – that would be their guide once the unfamiliar English coast came into view. Where they would land, though, would be entirely up to chance and fate. 

The winds became strong and swift as they reached the open sea, allowing them to pull their oars out of the water and let the sail do the work. Shiro watched Keith where he was crouched beside the bucket with Hunk and Ulaz, taking preliminary markings on the sun-board before they could leave sight of the familiar Galran coast. That strange urge that had come over him when he saw Keith and Kolivan share a farewell kiss was not exactly unknown to him, but it  _ had _ been unusually strong this time. It was just simple curiosity, he told himself. After all, he had never been close to someone in that way, nor kissed anyone. Was it not human nature to be curious about things one had never experienced? But it was only simple curiosity. 

Shiro looked away from Keith, instead watching the forest-carpeted mountains crawl past them as their ship sliced through the waters. In any case, he knew, it was impossible; the two of them were together, married, and quite happy at that, if their frequent shared affection was any indication. It wasn’t something he had a place being a part of. Nor was it something he was even supposed to  _ want  _ to be a part of. 

Perhaps calling it a simple curiosity was too dismissive. Curiosity was never so simple, and never came without punishment. Curiosity had led to Adam and Eve partaking in the apple and being driven out of the Garden of Eden. It had also led Odin to hang himself upside-down from the ash tree Yggdrasil and suffer torment for nine days and nights. Urges of a curious nature were not to be followed on mere whim. 

Shiro’s thoughts were interrupted by a body dropping onto the deck to sit beside him and a hand clapping him on the shoulder. It was Matt, the elder brother of the shield-maiden Pidge, whom Shiro had grown close to after he took over Shiro’s training whenever Ulaz or Keith was too busy with their own duties. He was a warm, easy-going man with a scar on his cheek, a quick wit and a quicker tongue, who Shiro counted as a friend. 

“You look deep in thought,” Matt said, propping his foot up on the deck and resting his arm on his bent knee. “What are you thinking about?” 

Things he should not be, Shiro thought to himself, though would never dare to say it out loud. He took a moment to reach for another worry he held – one that had been churning his gut like a stormy sea for days now, even before thoughts of Keith and Kolivan preoccupied the thoughts of his heart. 

“I am thinking of the battle to come,” Shiro said finally. “Perhaps you seasoned warriors can charge into battle without fear, but I have not the skill nor strength to think I can best death.” 

Matt chuckled and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “I’ve seen you fight, Shiro. I taught you myself, along with Keith and Ulaz, and they are the best with a blade in all of Marmora. You are plenty strong, and you would not have been asked to join us now if Keith did not think you were skillful enough. We will all be by your side in the shield wall. You have nothing to be fearful of.” 

Shiro smiled ruefully. “You speak as though it is that simple. Then, have you no fear, when you go into battle?” 

Matt shook his head. “In battle, there is no time for fear. Little time for thoughts, even. Battle is simple and straightforward; you use the skills that have been carved into the memory of your muscles, or you die. And if you die with honor in battle, you will be rewarded and taken to Valhalla to dine with the gods. It is as simple as that.” 

“Very simple.” Shiro let out a terse sigh through his nose. It felt like anything but. “Would you not regret leaving your family behind?” 

“I know I will see them again someday, when they too make their way to Odin’s hall,” Matt said. “Pidge and my mother are shield-maidens. My father was a warrior before a wound to his leg forced him to retire. We all understand the danger that comes from this life.” He looked at Shiro. “I trust the gods. I put my fate in their hands. That is why I am not afraid of battle. Many here would agree.” 

Shiro glanced at Keith, who was tossing the bucket of sea-water over the side of the ship while Hunk returned the sun-board to his sea chest. Keith turned to Regris, who was at the helm, and said something with a laugh, but the words were snatched away by the wind before they could carry to where Shiro was. Much like how his hair was snatched from the braids he wore, whipping around his face as he laughed sunnily at whatever Regris was saying. 

“And Keith?” Shiro asked Matt. “I suppose he feels the same?” Keith probably felt he would be reunited with his loved ones in Valhalla. Shiro, though, knew that if he himself died, there was little chance he would be allowed in Odin’s hall. 

Matt laughed softly. “Keith is different,” he said, surprising Shiro. “He trusts the gods, but he does not always submit to them. He challenges them. He challenges their hold on his destiny. He does not fear battle, because for him to fall, first the gods would have to rip his fate from his hands while he fought them tooth and nail. And they would be very hard-pressed to do that.” 

Shiro considered his words, turning them over in his mind. That did indeed sound like the Keith he knew. “Would he still go to Valhalla, then?”

“If he were to die honorably,” Matt replied. “He would make the nightly feasts at Odin’s table interesting, that’s for sure.”

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Several days into their journey, a great storm came upon them. They all saw the clouds building in the distance, dark gray tinged with green like moss-covered boulders about to tumble down the side of the mountain. But they were far out at sea and could do nothing but lash down anything they could to the deck, turn up the hoods on their cloaks, and brace themselves for the storm’s wrath. The seas heaved as Jörmungandr thrashed beneath the surface. The rain bit into their skin like teeth. Thunder roared overhead and lightning split the sky as Thor beat his hammer against his anvil. All were drenched to the bone. Hunk threw up more times than he could count. Shiro looked as pale and green in the face as the sea spray that arched into the sky when it struck their ship. Even Keith couldn’t deny that he felt ill. 

“Thor will destroy this ship…” Hunk muttered to himself, clutching the mast like a lifeline. “He is cursing me, for daring to build such a powerful ship…” 

“No.” Keith grit his teeth. He had had enough. He hauled himself up by the forestay line and twisted his hand to lock the rope around his fist. His men looked up at him, cold and miserable and huddled under what little shelter the shields lashed to the hull could offer them. He raised his voice over the howling wind. “Thor will not sink this ship! He is not cursing us – he is  _ celebrating _ ! He knows he  _ cannot  _ sink this ship, no matter what he or any others throw at us!”

The others traded looks; a small spark of hope, continued doubt, renewed courage, mounting fear at something behind him—

Thace seized him by the arm and yanked him down just as a massive wave washed over the ship, and Keith just barely managed to get his arms around a rowing bench before it hit him with the force of a galloping horse. When it passed, he wiped seawater out of his eyes and looked around the ship. All were still there, just thoroughly drenched (although probably not any more than they had been before). 

“See?!” Matt yelled from the aft of the ship. “Keith speaks the truth!” 

“Maybe so, but do not tempt fate,” Thace told them all, and fixed a stern look on Keith. “Stay low until this passes.”

The storm raged all through the night, with clouds so dark they could barely tell the morning had come. It seemed as though it would never come to pass. Finally, though, the winds gentled and the rain that fell straight from clouds grew lighter, rather than lashing at them from the side. The deluge lightened to a drizzle, then faded. Finally, color bled back into the world as the clouds parted, revealing blue sky above them and bluer sea below. It was later in the day than they had thought under the dark cover of the storm, and when it faded, they found that the sun was nearly at its zenith above them. 

A bucket of water was quickly drawn up and placed on the deck, and the sun-board was set on the surface. The shadow cast by the pin was far outside the ring they had drawn. 

Keith felt his gut twist as if the storm were still roiling around them. “We have drifted too far south. Correct the course.” 

The man at the rudder did so, and once they were heading west again, the sun-board was stowed away safely. There was still no sign of land in the distance. They would have to wait and see where it was they would end up. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

They did not have long to wait. Only two days later, a cormorant sea-bird was spotted swooping in the sky ahead of them. Later that day, the faint bluish smudge of land appeared on the horizon, standing out against the pink of the setting sun behind it. 

“Do you recognize it?” Keith asked Shiro. 

Shiro squinted into the distance and frowned down at his map, attention flicking between the two for several long moments before he answered. “Not at this distance. It is too flat to be Northumbria. That bluff there might be East Angles, but it could just as well be part of the Midlands…” He sighed and shook his head, gesturing at the map. “All this could very well be wrong, or riddled with errors. Map-making is an art, one I am not remotely trained in.” 

“Do not worry yourself sick over it,” Keith told him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Wherever we end up, we end up.”

They sailed on through the night, and as the first light of dawn touched the earth, they found themselves close enough to make out the land ahead of them better. 

Keith let his eyes trace over the hills, plains, and the gaping mouth of the large river. “I know where we are.” 

Shiro looked up from his map in confusion. “You do?”

Keith nodded and hopped down from the prow of the ship. “I’ve seen these lands before. This is where we raided last time. That river is the Humber.” 

Pidge crossed her arms. “Last time we were here, you gave your word to that weak jarl that you would leave. Can we even raid here?” 

“I never said we would never return,” Keith replied easily. “But that is true; they will remember us, and have probably bolstered their defenses.” 

“Then we should change course, and go north or south of that area,” Hunk said. 

“No.” Keith held out his hand and Shiro gave him the map. He studied it for a moment, then pointed to the Humber (a tentative, shaky line Shiro had drawn based on Keith’s stories, for he had never seen it himself). “Remember that the river divides itself in two less than half a day’s travel from the mouth. We took the north branch last time. Let us see what lies along the south branch.” 

Ulaz looked up and met Shiro’s eyes. “Have you any idea what might meet us there?” 

Shiro was silent for a long moment as he thought about it. “That might be the River Trent…” he said slowly. “If so, many large cities line its shores. It goes deep into the heart of Mercia. I have heard of it, but I don’t know it well enough to map its twists and turns.” 

“That is all we need to know,” Keith rose to his feet. “Keep steady towards that river.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rubs hands together* oh we really getting going now, both in terms of pining and plot. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts! Comments fuel the beast (I is the beast lol)


	10. Of Dragons and Deception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in, friends, this is a long one.
> 
> Soooo, a couple of characters are going to pop up in this chapter and the next that are not from VLD. You might remember one as a name that was mentioned in an off-handed way a couple chapters ago. They’re actually characters I borrowed from the History Channel’s “Vikings” series, but you really don’t need to have any background knowledge of them at all; I just needed a couple of villains and am shit at making up OCs, plus I don’t really hate any of the VLD Garrison characters enough to make them the Big Baddies here. And Zarkon was already king in Galra, so he’s out. Sendak I’m keeping in my back pocket for a later appearance, plus he’s canonically Galra so that would be a little odd. Ælle was a good villain-y villain from “Vikings” ~~(Ecbert was too cunning and would just draaaag out the story too long, and despite actually being from Mercia Kwenthrith was out because I just don’t like her character and I feel like Keith would have 0 patience for her vibes)~~. But again, if you haven’t seen “Vikings”, it doesn’t matter, because I’m just borrowing a couple villains who aren’t really that important to the story outside of what is presented here. Y’all are here for Keith and Shiro and Kolivan & co.
> 
> Also, if you _have_ seen “Vikings”, you may notice we’re diverging from that story, or mixing and melding some plot points while throwing the setting out the damn window. That’s because ya boy watched a lovely documentary about the Great Heathen Army and read yet another book on the Norse expansion, and wanted to start sprinkling in events more rooted in history (even though this fic is a MESS and not historically accurate whatsoever, but I am a NERD so sue me). Idk, Intertwining historical fiction and historical record is a messy business, man. At least I hope it’s a good story!

They came upon the English coast when the dawn was still young and the world was still asleep. The only sounds were those of the birds beginning to chirp and the quiet lap of waves against their hull as they entered the wide mouth of the river. The winds gentled, and a whispered command went around for them to take their places at the oars. A handful of archers were the only ones to not sit at the benches, instead standing at the fore and aft of the ship with bows strung but not yet drawn, their eyes scanning the shore for any threats. By the time the sun was beginning to peek over the hills, they had slipped past the cluster of villages and small towns that guarded the mouth of the river, and thus found themselves sailing with forests on both sides. Shiro breathed a sigh of relief; they weren’t in the clear by far – they were still very much in enemy territory and were only moving deeper into it, but for now, they were reasonably safe from being spotted (until they would come upon the next town or village, that is). 

Just as Keith had said, they reached a fork in the river after less than half a day of travel. After checking their bearings once more, they took the southern branch. The river snaked through the countryside – first southwards, then west, so that they rowed straight into the setting sun. They kept moving through the night, with half of the men resting and half of the men rowing before both parties switched roles. By the time the dawn broke, they were deep into the Mercian countryside and were itching to find a good place to go ashore and raid. 

“We have passed only a few small villages and a handful more farmsteads,” Thace said, scanning the trees lining the shore. “Nothing that would make raiding worthwhile.” 

“But look at the farms we have passed,” Keith pointed. “All of them are flourishing. The earth is rich here. Not to mention, most of what we have passed is virgin forest.” 

“Unless you plan to bring home sacks of dirt, we need to find somewhere to raid, and soon,” Thace told him, lowering his voice. “It will not be long before our presence here is discovered.”

Keith met Shiro’s eyes for a moment. Aside from Shiro, no one here knew that half of Keith’s mission here was scouting land to settle. That knowledge would be kept secret until they were ready to put their plans into place, so as to not arouse any dissent or schemes to usurp the leadership of either Marmora or the new potential settlement. 

Regris climbed down from his perch on the mast, dropping near-soundlessly onto the wooden deck of the ship. “There is something up ahead, on the western side of the river. A tall tower that comes to a peak high above the trees.” As he spoke, he sketched it out onto the lid of a barrel with the tip of his dagger. He looked up and met Shiro’s eyes, gesturing at him with the dagger. “Atop the point is that symbol you used to wear around your neck.” 

Keith’s eyes flicked over to Shiro with interest. “Are you able to climb?” He asked.

Shiro studied the mast Regris had just scaled. There were no rope ladders like an English ship, only a few thin posts that the Galrans used to check the ropes and sails. He nodded. “I can.” 

Keith looked out over the forest, his sharp eyes scanning the shore. “Go see what it is, and if you recognize it.” 

Shiro climbed the mast and clung to the top of it, trying very hard not to think about how he was nearly twenty feet in the air and a fall from such a height would surely injure – if not kill – him. He squinted into the sunlight, searching for the structure Regris had seen. It didn’t take long to spot it; it was the tallest thing around by far, and the only man-made structure tall enough to tower above the trees. And there was indeed a gilt cross at the top of the narrow, conical roof perched atop the square stone tower. More importantly, though, was the flag waving below the cross. One that Shiro recognized.

Shiro made his way down the mast again and hopped to the deck, placing a hand on the mast to steady himself. “It’s Repton.” In response to the blank look Keith gave him, Shiro went on. “Repton is the religious center of Mercia. The abbey – a kind of church which houses monks or nuns,” he clarified in response to Keith’s questioning look, “that stands there contains a crypt with all the bodies of the Mercian kings going back centuries.”

“So there is a church there.” Keith concluded.

“A very wealthy and powerful one.” Shiro nodded.

“And what of the king?” Keith asked. “Does he live there in life, or merely in death?”

Shiro shook his head. “The kings are only buried there. King Ælle rules from Tamworth, some twenty miles south of here.”

“Then we should continue on to there.” Keith seemed like he was about to turn away, then noticed Shiro’s hesitancy and the way he was looking in the direction of the abbey. “What are you thinking?” He asked, curious.

Shiro shifted his gaze to meet Keith’s eyes. “It is a long way by river to Tamworth. And if you continue, you will surely encounter the king’s ships. But if you stay here, you might be able to force the king to come to you, and gain the upper hand. Especially if you take his church without bloodshed.” 

Keith tilted his chin as he looked out over the shore, seeming contemplative. Nodding to himself, he turned to Thace. “Stop the boats. We’re going ashore here.” 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

They hauled their ships onto the narrow beach lining the river and began to set up camp in the fields along the shore. Tents were pitched, stakes were whittled from saplings and lashed together to make deadly fences, and the clang of weapons being sharpened filled the air as they set up their encampment. 

“Why have they not sent someone out to us?” Lance wondered aloud, looking towards the tall, imposing structure of the abbey. 

“What, are you expecting a welcome reception?” Pidge elbowed him. Lance growled and pushed her away halfheartedly. 

“It is strange that they haven’t sent their military out,” Hunk said. Lance gestured at him as if to say:  _ see?  _

“They haven’t got a military,” Shiro told them, hauling over another row of spikes lashed together. He laid them down where Thace directed and helped him tie them in place, while the others threw grass and leaf litter over them. Shiro went on, “the army will surely come, but from further away. I imagine the abbot has sent word to the king of our arrival and is now holed up in the abbey, hoping we don’t attack.” 

“If it’s as rich of a place as you say, then they ought to have  _ something  _ defending it.” Lance shook his head. 

“It is a spiritual place,” Shiro reminded him. “Is your temple of Oriande protected by armies?”

“Oriande is protected by the mountains that hide it at the very least.” Pidge gestured at the river. “This is right on the water’s edge, ripe for the taking.” 

“Leave him be,” Keith said, hammering a row of spikes into the earth. “It’s not his fault his people don’t know how to plan their cities.” 

Chuckles rose up from the rest of the warriors, and even Shiro smiled wryly as he shook his head in feigned exasperation. 

They spent nearly the whole day setting up and fortifying their encampment beside the river. After a simple dinner, they settled down to sleep in accordance with their schedule: several warriors patrolling the perimeter and keeping watch, and rotating positions with those who slept. 

Given Keith’s technical ownership of him, Shiro slept with him in his tent. It was spacious considering their circumstances, as it was meant to double as a place for holding war counsel, and could thus comfortably fit about three or four men standing or sitting on stools. It was not nearly as cramped as the small two-man tents some of the others were sharing. Still, Keith realized as he laid out his bedroll on the ground, it was the closest to Shiro he had been while sleeping.

They left one candle burning in the safety of a lantern, just in case they were attacked in the night and had to grab their weapons, then they settled down to sleep. Keith turned over and looked across the tent to where Shiro was lying. His eyes were closed, but Keith could tell he was not asleep just yet. 

“How does it feel?” Keith asked quietly. “To be back in your homeland?” 

A soft huff left Shiro as his lips turned lifted in a small smile. He turned over on his side and propped his head up in his hand. “This kingdom was never my homeland,” he said, the candlelight casting a flickering glint over his dark eyes as he shook his head just slightly. “I have never been here, actually.” 

Keith frowned at him –  _ not  _ a pout at such cheek, Keith of Marmora  _ did not _ pout – and snaked an arm out of his bedroll to flick a pebble in Shiro’s direction. It skittered to a halt before it reached him, harmless. “You know what I mean,” he said. “That river we were on before, that was the border of your homeland. It was right there on the northern shore.” 

“It was,” Shiro admitted. “But Northumbria is very large. I had never been that far south. I have no connection to that place, either.”

Keith sighed and fell back onto the rolled-up cloak that served as his pillow. “You are quite the stickler, aren’t you…” he muttered under his breath. 

“You’re looking to see if there is doubt in my mind. I am trying to assure you that there is not.” Shiro’s voice came to him from across the tent, warm with amusement. “I may have been born in these lands, but my home is with you. I’m not going to run off and desert you just because we are in a place where they speak my native language. I swear that to you, Keith.” 

Keith tried to ignore how warm those words made his heart. “You know, technically, you’re not supposed to be allowed to swear oaths,” he pointed out. 

Shiro chuckled. “Technically, I am not supposed to be allowed on raids either. Or have my own shoes. Or be taught how to fight. And yet, here I am.” 

“Here you are…” Keith agreed softly. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to feel this relieved, at ease, even  _ happy _ , just because Shiro – a slave – was here beside him. But it had been a long time – if ever – since Keith had thought of Shiro as a slave. 

Keith tucked his hands behind the back of his head and closed his eyes. “We should get some sleep. Surely word will reach the Saxons soon, and I would not be surprised if they send someone out to us by tomorrow morning.” 

He heard the shifting sound of blankets as Shiro laid down once more. “Goodnight, Keith,” he said, his voice soft in the night air.

Why in the nine realms did those two words make his chest feel so warm and yet so empty? “Goodnight, Shiro.” 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

They woke early with the dawn, and the camp was already beginning to stir by the time Shiro emerged from the tent. He was more than used to waking early to prepare the morning meal, and the only difference here was that instead of stoking one hearth-fire and fixing a few plates, he worked with several others to chop wood for three campfires and prepare large pots of hearty stew to feed about fifty people. They all ate in shifts, with others keeping watch or readying yet more defenses of spiked barriers or stockpiling arrows and weapons. The sound of axes chopping wood and the metallic scrape of blades against whetstones filled the air as the early-morning mist dissipated from the river and the sun began to warm the chilly air. 

When Shiro came back from washing the dishes at the river, he found a group of several warriors sitting around passing bowls of colored paste – ground ashes, charcoal, crushed berries… – between them. They dipped their fingers into the dye and smudged them across their eyes, foreheads, cheeks, and the shells of their ears, leaving trails of black, gray, red, and violet across their skin. 

“Why do you do that?” Shiro asked Keith while he rubbed dark, watered-down ash paste around his eyes. “Why do you warriors wear makeup, even the men?” 

Keith looked up. “What is ‘ _ make-up _ ’?” He asked, confused. 

Shiro pointed to the shallow bowls of paints and dyes. “Makeup. It’s what noble women use to color their faces, to make them appear more beautiful. But I have never seen it applied in such a manner as you all do; normally, the skin of the face is made paler with powder, and lips are colored red, with a bit of color on the cheeks and above the eyes.” Not spread along the entire length of the eyelid and beyond to curl around the ear, and left to drip down the face however the fates intended. 

Keith snorted and got back to work, dipping his fingers into the red dye Pidge passed him. “We don’t do this to make ourselves beautiful. We do it to make ourselves look more intimidating. It is war paint – meant to be fierce and strike fear into our enemies hearts on the battlefield.” He glanced at Shiro. “What do you think? Is it intimidating?”

“At the moment, no.” Shiro’s eyes flicked between them all. They were his friends now, but only a year ago, he had found himself on the receiving end of such a raid. “But when you first set upon the Garrison monastery, yes, I thought you were demons that had risen from the depths of Hell.” 

They laughed, though not unkindly. “See? Then it works,” Keith told him. “Our war paint ‘ _ make-up _ ’ is fierce after all.”

“Now that I know the difference, I would not call it makeup,” Shiro admitted. “Saxon women apply their makeup with great care, using small brushes to create delicate lines. You just sort of… slap it on.” 

“There’s a method to it,” Lance told him sternly, pointing a finger at him that was coated in blueish-gray ash. “Caking black around the eyes is the most important part. It helps to keep the sun out of our eyes so that it does not blind us. And it makes the eyes look bigger, and makes it so that the eyes are not swallowed in the design. The designs are also important, and different symbols and colors carry different meanings.”

“We have also traveled here,” Pidge pointed out. “We don’t have the extra cargo space to bring brushes, when fingers can do the job just as well.”

Hunk picked up a bowl of charcoal and ashes mixed with water, a black paste, and held it out to Shiro. “Would you like to try? You could do with looking more intimidating, priest.” 

Shiro considered it, then shook his head with a small smile. “If I am meant to play the part of a trustworthy translator, I think I had best not appear too intimidating to the Saxons.” 

“Fair enough,” Hunk shrugged and set the bowl down.

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬ 

The sun was reaching its zenith in the sky when the man on lookout duty sent word to Keith that there were figures prowling the forest.

“They keep out of sight, save for only quick glimpses,” he told him. “There are two, perhaps three of them. It is hard to tell, for they keep their heads covered with helms. They dress alike, in what looks like leather armor studded with iron. Probably scouts from an army.” 

Keith’s gaze sought out the treeline at the edge of the vast meadow they had taken up camp in. A breeze blew, rustling the leaves and branches, but no faces peeked out at them. Perhaps he saw something Shiro could not, or perhaps this was normally how things went, because he did not look overly alarmed by the news. 

“Then I expect we will have company soon,” Keith ran the whetstone over his axe-blade once more before tucking it into the pouch on his belt and getting to his feet.

His prediction proved to be correct; not long after that, a sizable force of armed Saxons emerged from the treeline, followed by an important-looking man in plate armor sitting astride a horse. The Galrans readied their weapons and gathered at their pike-tipped barricades, watching warily but not rushing out to attack just yet. 

The leader of the Saxons – the one in plate armor – rode up to where the trees thinned at the edge of the clearing and stopped his horse there. 

_ “These lands are under the protection of King Ælle,” _ the Saxon called.  _ “He demands that you leave at once!” _

Keith laughed softly and leaned on the fence between the spikes, looking far too casual considering the situation.  _ “Then why has he not come himself? Who are you, who can speak for the king?” _ he called out in English. 

The Saxons looked at each other, confused and muttering too quietly for the Vikings to hear. Their leader, however, looked unfazed aside from a slight twitch of his face. No doubt he wanted to appear utterly unintimidated by his enemies. 

_ “I am Æthelwulf, the brother of the king and leader of his army,” _ he said.  _ “And who are you, who can speak our language?” _

_ “I am Keith of Galra,” _ Keith told him.  _ “And I wish to speak with the king.” _

The Saxons spoke among themselves for a few minutes. Without taking his eyes off the Saxons, Keith relayed the conversation to his men in a low voice. 

The Saxons seemed to come to an agreement, and faced the camp once more.  _ “It is uncouth to be shouting across the moors like this. You and five of your men may come out and meet us in the center of the field. I and five of my men will meet you, and we can discuss the matter like civilized men.”  _

_ “I suppose your men will be armed?” _ Keith asked. 

_ “We will be ready for self-defense,” _ Æthelwulf replied.  _ “You may do the same. But it would be in all of our best interests to speak without shedding blood. I trust you understand that?” _

_ “Of course.” _ Keith smiled coldly. 

_ “You have one hour,” _ Æthelwulf told him, then spurred his horse around and rode back into the woods. 

Keith leaned back from the row of spikes and quickly relayed the conversation to his men. “He speaks as if he already has the high ground,” he added distastefully. 

“He is a nobleman,” Shiro reminded him. “That is simply the way they think.” 

“He is mistaken if he thinks his wealth can buy him skill in combat,” Keith spat into the grass. 

“But it can buy his safety,” Ulaz reminded him. “How much will you ask for?” 

“That will depend on how much they have,” Keith said. “And how willing they are to part with it.” 

An hour later, their party set out from the camp with shields slung over their backs and weapons belted at their sides – present if needed, but not at the ready (yet). Keith led the way, with Shiro, Lance, Pidge, Thace, and Ulaz flanking him to either side. Hunk and Regris remained in the camp, ready to close the gate or lead the rest of the warriors out, depending on which way the negotiations went. As they made their way toward the center of the field, Æthelwulf and five Saxons came marching out of the woods, their shields up, and Æthelwulf on horseback as he had been before.

“They march in formation,” Thace noted, worried. 

“But not to attack.” Shiro shook his head. “Their weapons are at their sides. It is only for the sake of appearance.” 

“I suppose that is also why Sir Pompous refuses to walk?” Lance arched a brow at the king’s brother on his trotting horse. 

Shiro snorted. “Exactly.” 

The Galran warriors stopped when Keith seemed to determine he was at the center of the field, forcing the Saxons to come up and meet them where they stood. It was a subtle power play, Shiro noticed. 

Æthelwulf stopped his horse and dismounted, handing the reins off to one of his men as he stepped closer (but not close enough to put himself in striking range).  _ “Keith of Galra, was it? Tell me, what has brought the Northmen to the heart of Mercia?” _ He asked, eyeing them all coldly.

_ “I wish to speak to the king,” _ Keith told him.  _ “You will take us to him, and in return, we will refrain from attacking your lands.” _ He gestured to the church standing a short distance away.  _ “I understand that church there is a very important place for your people – for your kings. There is much of value inside, correct? Both in gold and in spiritual knowledge. It would be a shame if something happened to it.” _ He smiled, a cold curve of his lips that didn’t reach his eyes.  _ “But nothing need happen to it, if you only escort us to meet the king.” _

Æthelwulf fixed him with a long look.  _ “Do you threaten us, Galran?” _

_ “Not threaten,” _ Keith replied smoothly.  _ “Merely warn.” _

Æthelwulf’s gaze drifted past Keith’s shoulders to where the rest of the warriors were camped.

_ “The king meets only with friends,” _ he said finally.  _ “I desire that either you or one of your companions be baptized into our faith. That way, we can make peace with a friend and fellow Christian, and not an enemy. We cannot trust the word of a pagan, so one of you must become Christian.” _

Shiro looked up. Could…? 

Keith laughed aloud, as if he found the request ridiculous. The Saxons looked nervous at the outburst. The Galrans looked confused, having clearly not expected laughter and not understanding the words that had prompted it. 

“What did he say?” Pidge hissed. 

“He wants one of us to become Christian, otherwise he won’t take us to see the king,” Keith relayed. The other Galrans chuckled as well, which only heightened the Saxons’ apprehension. 

Heart pounding in his chest, Shiro stepped forward.  _ “Baptism will not be necessary. I am already a Christian,” _ he said evenly. 

Keith fixed him with a sharp, warning look that clearly told him to get back in line, but Shiro held his ground. Æthelwulf and the Saxon soldiers looked surprised.

_ “I am Brother Shirogane. I was a monk at the Garrison monastery on the Holy Isle of Lindisfarne in Northumbria,” _ Shiro explained.  _ “I was one of the few who survived the attack there. Keith and his warriors captured me, and my life was spared because I could speak their language.” _

_ “Then I suppose it is you who taught him to speak our kingdom’s tongue?” _ Æthelwulf asked, turning toward Shiro as if he were now the one he was negotiating with. Keith looked incensed at the movement. 

_ “He did teach me, but it was I who requested it,” _ Keith told him, voice clipped.  _ “You see I have a man of your god among my ranks. Now take us to your king.” _

_ “Not yet,” _ Æthelwulf told him. He turned to Shiro, eyes narrowed in suspicion.  _ “Brother Shirogane… How do we know we can trust you? You claim to be a man of God, yet you wear a pagan symbol around your neck? How do we know you are not simply an apostate worthy only of crucifixion?” _

Shiro’s heart stopped in his chest and he reached up to lay a hand over the Thor’s hammer tied around his neck. He glanced over at Keith and found him watching him guardedly, as if Shiro was a wild beast he thought might turn on him and attack at any moment. 

Shiro steeled himself and looked back at Æthelwulf.  _ “Does the lamb not tread carefully around the lion’s den? I said and did what was needed to survive at the hands of my captors.” _ He pulled up the left sleeve of his tunic and untied the cloth wrapped around his wrist, revealing the cord tied underneath – and the cross that adorned it.  _ “I have kept my faith, lord Æthelwulf. I merely did so within the sanctuary of my heart.”  _

Keith frowned and stepped toward him.  _ “You said you got rid of that thing.” _ He jabbed his finger in the direction of the cross tied around his wrist, every word as scathing as Hell-fire.  _ “We accepted you as one of us because we thought you had changed. We gave you that hammer when you swore to fight with us. I let you have a hand in the sacrifice to Odin when we left – did that mean nothing to you?” _

_ “It meant nothing to me,” _ Shiro said evenly. He lifted the necklace holding the iron hammer pendant and held it out in front of himself, heart pounding in his ears so loudly that he barely heard the next words falling from his own lips.  _ “And neither does this.” _ He dropped the necklace, but Keith snatched it out of the air before it could fall to the grass below. 

_ “You dishonor me and insult me,” _ Keith spat at the ground, his eyes burning as he glared at Shiro.  _ “If your heart was not willing in that sacrifice, then you have brought dishonor upon me for letting you do it. May Thor strike you down for your dishonesty.” _

_ “Your false god can do nothing to harm me,” _ Shiro told him, slipping the familiar cord around his neck so that the battered silver cross lay on top of his armor.  _ “For I have God – the one true God – on my side.”  _

Keith seethed at him, but Shiro noticed that Æthelwulf was smirking as he watched the exchange. Shiro turned to the Saxon, chin held high.  _ “Are you satisfied now that you know there is a Christian among these ranks, who can be trusted to uphold his word as a fellow man of God?”  _

_ “Indeed.” _ Æthelwulf spared Keith a glance, his eyes equal parts smug and cold.  _ “Go and ready your men. We will return with one dozen horses for you, then I will escort you to the castle. The king will discuss the terms of your departure there.” _ With that, he turned and strode away. 

Keith watched him go, his hands curled into fists at his sides. As Æthelwulf mounted his horse and rode back into the woods, Keith turned on his heel and stalked away, but not before throwing a dirty glare in Shiro’s direction. The other Galrans followed him, sharing confused glances and quietly asking Keith what had transpired, but the Viking leader brushed them off. The only one who did not look at him with hatred was Ulaz, who merely watched him carefully.

_ “I hope you know what you are doing,” _ Ulaz said quietly. Then he too turned away and followed his kinsmen.

Shiro tucked the cross underneath his shirt and followed them, careful to keep his distance. He hoped so, too. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

Shiro didn’t know if Keith told the rest of the warriors what had happened, or if they had simply been able to guess, based on the terse words exchanged and Shiro’s discarding of the hammer pendant. Either way, by the time Shiro made it back to the camp, the Galrans were already looking at him as if he was the contents of a forgotten-about chamber pot in need of being emptied. Conversations hushed when he drew near, and people watched him suspiciously as he passed. He ignored them and went straight to Keith’s tent, where he found him pacing furiously. 

Indigo eyes burning with rage and hurt snapped over to him when he entered the tent, and Keith bristled like a hound with its hackles raised. “Get out.”

“I need to speak with you,” Shiro said, letting the tent flap fall closed behind him. 

“I think you’ve said plenty,  _ priest _ ,” Keith spat. 

“I lied,” Shiro said.

“Yes, you made that abundantly clear.” Keith uncrossed his arms and curled a hand around the axe belted at his waist. Though he didn’t draw it, he looked very much like he wanted to. “You’re a liar and a traitor, and you betrayed those who showed you kindness. You lied to all of us. You lied to  _ me _ , Shiro.” 

Shiro lifted his eyes to meet Keith’s. “I lied to Æthelwulf,” he said quietly. 

Keith blinked, and his anger turned to confusion. “What?”

“I lied to Æthelwulf, when I told him I was still a man of God. A true man of God does not doubt his faith.” Shiro lifted the cross off over his head and looked down at it, his heart heavy. “I don’t know what I believe, anymore,” he whispered, curling his fingers around the pendant. The silver was cold against his skin. He looked up at Keith. “I don’t know if I believe in the God I always knew, or your gods, or if we are alone in this world after all. All I am certain of is that I know I believe in you. I believe you want peace, not war. I believe that you want to help your people. I believe that you are good. That is why I did what was necessary to convince them to let you speak with the king.” His lips twitched in a brief, wry smile that didn’t quite touch the sadness that lingered in his eyes. “I am glad that you chose to berate me in a language Æthelwulf could understand, at least. It would not have been as convincing if I had to ask you to switch back.”

“You said all that… to convince him?” Keith asked, his brows pulling together. When Shiro nodded, Keith pushed a hand through his hair as he looked at the side of the tent, mulling over his words. 

“How do I know that what you say now is true?” Keith asked quietly, turning back to him. His eyes were guarded as he watched Shiro carefully. “How can I know that what you told me, and not Æthelwulf, was the real truth?” 

Shiro understood his concern. After all, he had told Æthelwulf he had lied to Keith,  _ in front of  _ Keith. That itself had been a lie, but after so many lies in a row, it must be difficult for anyone to believe him now. 

“I swear on my life that what I have told you is true,” Shiro said gravely. A life, after all, was the one thing men of all beliefs could agree on was worth something. “I told Æthelwulf I was still a Christian because it was the only way to get him to agree to take you to the king. In truth, though, I don’t know what I believe in anymore.” 

Keith swallowed hard, then lifted his hands to place them on Shiro’s shoulders. “I believe you. Thank you, Shiro. I can’t imagine that was easy to do.” After squeezing his shoulders once more, Keith reached into his own pocket and pulled out the leather cord with its hammer pendant. He picked up Shiro’s hand and placed the necklace in his palm atop the cross. “And I do not see any reason why the god you were raised with cannot have a place among the gods you have come to know these past few years. You say it is impossible, but you are the sort of man who can do anything, Shiro.” He curled Shiro’s fingers closed around the necklace. “No matter what you decide, this hammer is yours to keep. It is a gift. Even if the only meaning you associate with it is my and Kolivan’s acceptance of you as our friend, is that not meaning enough?”

Shiro smiled sadly. “It is.” He slipped both cords on over his head and tucked the pendants into his shirt, letting them both rest against his chest. 

Keith started to turn away, then paused. “One more thing.” He turned back to Shiro. “What is ‘ _ crucifixion _ ’? Æthelwulf said you were fit for it, but I did not know what he meant.”

Suddenly the cross against his chest weighed heavily on his heart. Shiro swallowed. “It is the way Jesus was killed. One’s arms are outstretched, and nails are driven through the palms and the feet, securing the body to a wooden cross. The cross is raised and planted in the earth, and a spear is thrust into the person’s abdomen. Then they hang there until they die, slowly and painfully.” 

Keith stared at him in horror. “And you said  _ we _ were the barbarians…” he muttered quietly. 

“If the Saxons find out I lied,” Shiro said softly. “That might very well be my fate.”

“No.” Keith shook his head and grasped Shiro’s shoulders. “I will not allow such a thing to happen to you. I promise you that.” His eyes burned into Shiro’s, hard and determined. “I will protect you, Shiro.”

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

It was not long until the Saxons were riding back to their camp with horses in tow. Keith selected ten warriors to accompany him, and the group set out, with the Saxons in the lead. 

“Their horses are a sturdier breed than ours,” Lance noted, stroking a hand over the flank of the bluish-gray mare he had been given. 

While the rest of them were getting ready to ride, Thace came over to him, looking concerned. “Keith. Do you really think it is wise to step into the enemy’s house? What is to stop them from killing us all?”

“If they kill us, they will have the rest of our warriors on their heads seeking revenge,” Keith tipped his head in the direction of the men and women who would remain at the camp. “It is a delicate, dangerous dance, but we must attempt it. Besides, we have fulfilled their requirements; we have a Christian with us.” He nodded towards Shiro, who was stroking the neck of the black mare he had been handed.

Thace watched Shiro for a moment. The rest of their party had been informed of what Shiro had done for them, but had been given strict instructions to cooperate with the lie – show the Saxons he was close enough to them to be considered trustworthy, but pretend he was still an outsider for his ‘beliefs’. If what the rest of them were doing was a delicate dance on unfamiliar soil, then what Shiro was doing was walking a narrow log over a deep ravine; suspended precariously over both sides, and his balance dependent entirely on himself and the favor of the winds. One wrong move, one gust of wind that was just a bit too strong… and he could be sent plunging to his death far below. Keith just hoped that if he did fall, he would be close enough for Keith to grab him. 

They rode through the fields, meadows, and forest for about two hours. When they came around the bend and the trees gave way, the castle town was just ahead of them. It was an enormous structure larger than any longhouse they had seen, and made of stone blocks rather than wood. The cold and imposing appearance reminded Keith of that Garrison monastery, but this was far larger and much better armed; he could understand now why Shiro had laughed when Keith had mistakenly called the Garrison a castle. Archers stood at strangely-shaped turrets along the castle gates, but they lowered their weapons when Æthelwulf gave them a sign. They rode in through the gates and past a crowd of shocked onlookers milling about the square. As they dismounted, a fearful hush settled over the crowd, the chatter fading save for the squawking of chickens and bleating of goats, and everyone stared at them distrustfully as they followed Æthelwulf into the castle. A few people even spit at the ground while glaring at them. Keith didn’t care what they thought of him – they weren’t his people.

The moment he entered the castle, Keith could see what Shiro had meant when he said that the king hoarded his wealth. When he had first heard it, a fleeting image had passed through his mind of a dragon surrounded by piles of gold coins and gemstones. What he found, though, was beyond what he could have imagined, and a world away from the dirty town just outside. Galrans believed that thresholds were the barriers between worlds, and Keith thought that this could not be more true now, when he was faced with such luxury and poverty separated by only a raised wooden lip and a thick door. 

The floors were covered in lush, rich rugs and carpets. Wrought iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling between carved stone arches. Intricately-carved wooden paneling decorated the walls, interspersed with detailed paintings that gleamed with gold leaf in the light of the fire. A long table covered with a fine linen tablecloth and heaped with more food than they could spare for even the Jól feast stretched nearly the length of the great hall. At the head of the hall, up a set of raised steps strewn with more plush rugs, sat a throne made of gold and studded with gems — and upon it, sat the man this all belonged to. 

If the hall they had entered was the dragon’s lair piled high with treasure, then surely this was the dragon himself. The king was a heavy-set man draped in rich, finely-embroidered clothes, with an ornate sword at his hip and not a hint of dust or dirt on his boots. His black hair was short by Galran standards, only reaching chin-length, and was left hanging free with no braids or ties. His beard, too, was unadorned with beads and was not trimmed as neatly as their men, in Keith’s opinion. A most peculiar ornament – circular, with several rising points that ended in crosses – rested on his head, that Keith only knew was called a ‘crown’ because of Shiro. It was a sign of a king’s royalty, Shiro had told him. As if anyone could look at the finery in this hall and think otherwise. At any rate, even Keith could see why the Saxon kings favored these ‘crowns’ – the thing was entirely made of gold and was studded with gemstones, and probably weighed several pounds on its own. Perhaps all that weight resting on his head was what made the king’s expression look so sour and foul. 

No, Keith chuckled to himself. He knew exactly who that frown was for, and it was leading his men into the hall and tracking mud on the king’s luxurious carpets. Because some leaders sat on their thrones, and others fought alongside their men.

_ “Your Majesty, King Ælle,” _ Æthelwulf removed his helmet and bowed. What brother bows to his own kin, Keith wondered privately. Æthelwulf swept a hand towards the rest of them.  _ “This man is Keith, of the Northlands known as Galra, and these warriors are his men.” _

Æthelwulf cast Keith a pointed look, but Keith only smirked and ran his fingers along the circular hearth placed in front of the room, just inside the doors. As if teasing the flickering flames with his hand was more important than the pompous man on the throne. Who he would most certainly not bow to.

_ “Ah, yes.” _ Ælle did not look amused.  _ “We have heard much about you and your kind, Keith of Galra.” _

Keith snorted and his lips quirked up in a sly grin. He had set foot on Mercian soil not a full day before, and entered its waters only a day before that. How much could they have heard? But, he supposed, myths and legends tended to travel fast. Shiro had told him that the attack on Garrison had probably been likened to Armageddon, a disaster akin to their own Ragnarök. 

King Ælle looked frustrated with his silence. The nobles lining the walls looked nervous. Even Shiro was casting concerned looks between Keith and the king. 

_ “Forgive me, but I was under the impression you had learned to speak our tongue,” _ King Ælle bit out sharply. 

_ “I have,” _ Keith replied smoothly, passing his hand through the flames of the hearth again.  _ “I simply prefer to choose my words carefully.” _

The king’s brows pulled low in a thick, ugly V over his beady eyes.  _ “I suppose dinner will give you ample time to choose them. Then, we can talk.” _

Keith only offered him a measured, carefully-calculated smile in return. Oh, now  _ that  _ was a fascinating expression on the king’s face; Ælle clearly thought him a simpleton for not being so free with his words, and he was visibly frustrated that he, a great king of Mercia, had to stoop to accommodate this invader from a backwater, barbaric land. And both of them knew that he was only forced to do so because this barbaric, axe-wielding, pagan, war-paint-wearing invader was the one whose upper hand was camped on the river beside the church, ready to attack if provoked. 

Keith passed his hand through the hearth fire once more, the flames nothing against the thick calluses on his hands from years of waging war. With a glance at his men and a small jerk of his head, he led the warriors into the king’s hall.

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

The only knives at play were those of the cutlery, yet Shiro had never felt more like he was in battle. He was wedged between Keith and some terrified Saxon noble at the table, sitting uncomfortably still while his two worlds collided in front of his eyes. As soon as the food was served, the Galrans tore into the meal; grabbing meats off serving platters, tearing flesh from bone with their hands, and downing their drinks in a matter of gulps. The Saxons looked on in disgust and horror, and the bishop’s voice shook as he recited the prayer over the din. It took far too long for the Galrans to catch on that their hosts weren’t eating yet, but even then, they didn’t care enough to stop other than for a brief, quizzical look around. Shiro’s lips formed the words to follow along with the bishop’s prayer, but his heart was thinking back to the feasts he had attended in Marmora – why did the same actions and manners look so startling here, now? 

“Why are those people in white robes chanting?” Hunk leaned closer to Pidge and whispered to her, eyes fixed on the bishop and the monks behind him, and at Shiro echoing their words. “Are they casting a spell on us?” 

“It is a prayer for their god,” Keith replied, plucking another drumstick from the serving platter. 

“Should we stop?” Pidge asked.

Keith shrugged. “It is not our god.” He bit into the meat, tearing it with his teeth. 

When the prayers had finished and the Saxons tentatively began eating – all the while casting nervous, disgusted looks at their Galran table-mates – King Ælle gave Shiro a long, beady-eyed stare. 

_ “I am pleased to see you have not forgotten your teachings in your time with these pagans, Brother Shirogane,” _ Ælle said, his voice holding the air of conversation without a shred of the genuine interest such conversation usually entailed. 

_ “Such prayers have been embedded into my soul since I first began to speak,” _ Shiro said carefully.  _ “I could never forget them.” _ But it had been quite some time since he had uttered them, however. He used to say them – at first at the table with his hands folded, but doing so had earned him confused and impatient looks from Keith, Kolivan, and Krolia when she joined them, so for a while he had taken to murmuring them quietly in his room before going out to the kitchen. But it was difficult to do so in a way that would not keep his hosts waiting, so after a time, he had quietly dropped the custom. But it did not seem prudent to explain that to the king now, he thought. 

Keith licked his fingers and turned in his seat.  _ “Well? Shall we talk now, king?” _ He asked.

King Ælle set down his fork and knife.  _ “Very well. What is your price to leave our lands and never return?” _

Keith grinned like a cat.  _ “Two thousand pounds’ weight, in gold and silver.” _

Shiro’s eyes widened as hushed gasps went up among the nobles. It was an exorbitant price to lead with. The Galrans looked around, confused by the reactions. 

“What did you say?” Lance hissed.

“Two thousand pounds,” Keith told him, his lips quirking up in a smirk. 

The Galrans exchanged eager looks and chuckles. “Double it!” Someone offered. 

King Ælle’s frown deepened.  _ “I do not think I heard you properly, Keith of Galra.” _

_ “Oh, forgive me.” _ Keith licked the grease off his fingers and got to his feet. Shiro wanted to shrink under the table in mortifiction when Keith had the gall to cup his hands around his mouth to shout in the king’s direction.  _ “Two thousand pounds’ weight, in gold and silver.” _

“Double it!” Regris called out.

“Triple it!” Lance added. “Look at that fat king, he can handle it!” 

Keith chuckled and made a motion to quiet them before turning to the king once more.  _ “Two thousand pounds is my price. My men would ask for far more. I think you had best agree to my terms, before they get restless.” _ He sat down again and reached for a pile of small pies, plucking one off the top and digging in.

The king drew in a long, tense breath.  _ “You must give me time to collect such a vast sum.” _

“Mm,” Keith hummed like he had just had a thought. He pointed a finger at the king, dyed red as blood from the berries within the pie.  _ “Your own treasure will do just fine. We don’t want peasants’ coins or cheap metals. They don’t melt down well. Only pure gold and silver.” _

The king glared at him.  _ “So you would have me open my own coffers to pay you off?” _

_ “Exactly,” _ Keith grinned, a sharp and dangerous curve to his lips.  _ “These are your lands, are they not? They don’t belong to the peasants, they belong to you. So you must be the one to provide the payment to protect them.” _

Shiro felt a chill run down his spine as he realized just why Keith had asked him about the details of the feudal land system in such depth. He hadn’t understood it at the time; why should a man stopping by only to raid care so much about the intricacies of the society he was raiding? He knew that Keith used the information he gave him, but to see it play out before his eyes was another thing entirely. At least Keith was holding to his word. To the king, it would look like simple greed for only the best, but Shiro could see how such a demand was carefully crafted.

The king watched him for a long time, then picked up his fork once more.  _ “Very well. Consider it done, then,” _ he said finally, stabbing his fork into his meat with perhaps a bit more force than was necessary. It seemed he was wise enough to pick his battles. 

_ “Not done yet, obviously,” _ Keith spread his hands and looked around at the obvious lack of payment. The joke was lost on the terrified nobles, though, but when Keith met Shiro’s eyes, the former monk gave him a minuscule twitch of his lips in a fleeting smile.

King Ælle did not look nearly as amused. He probably thought the Galran had misunderstood him.  _ “I will send the payment as soon as I am able. In the meantime, you and your men must go back to your camp and stay there, and not attack any people or villages. If you cannot comply with that, you will receive nothing but the tip of my sword.” _

Keith snorted. “I prefer receiving the sword of a different man than you,” he muttered in Galran. 

Ulaz, sitting across from Keith, choked on his drink. Shiro closed his eyes and prayed for strength. The rest of the Galrans stared at him, confused and no doubt wondering how on earth the conversation had turned to  _ that _ . 

Lance’s eyes went wide. “What?! What are you guys talking about?” 

Keith waved him off and turned back to the king.  _ “Agreed. If you swear to send the payment, then we swear to not attack.” _

Ælle gave him a long look down the high slope of his nose.  _ “Unfortunately, I cannot take the word of a pagan as trustworthy.” _

_ “Right, of course.” _ Keith chuckled. To anyone close to him, the condescension was clear in his voice, and Shiro only hoped that the king did not know him well enough to hear it.  _ “Only men of your god can make oaths, I had forgotten.” _ His gaze drifted to the bishop, decked out in white robes decorated with a large cross embroidered with fine golden thread on his stole. Keith pointed at him.  _ “Is he a priest?”  _

The bishop shrank back in his seat and suddenly became very interested in his plate. 

_ “He is a bishop.” _ Ælle looked incensed, and frustrated by the change in topic.  _ “But yes, he is indeed a man of God.” _

_ “I too keep a man of God in my home.” _ Keith clapped Shiro on the shoulder.  _ “I presume my priest can make such an oath?” _

_ “Priest?” _ The king’s beady eyes bored into Shiro.  _ “I believe you claimed to be a monk,” _ he said, his words clipped.  _ “Did you lie to us,  _ **_Brother_ ** _ Shirogane?” _

_ “No, your Majesty,” _ Shiro said quickly.  _ “I apologize; the pagans have priests of their own, but no monks. I believe they use the words interchangeably. Please, forgive their ignorance.” _ When Ælle continued to frown, Shiro went on,  _ “Frankly, Sire, it was that or ‘shamen’...” _

_ “What is the difference, if all are men of your god?” _ Keith asked, prompting mutterings from the Saxons. He ignored them and pointed to the bishop again.  _ “In any case, let us move on to the making of oaths – my man of God and yours, who can make your oaths for you.”  _

Ælle seethed up on his throne, and Shiro was sorely tempted to slide beneath the table or at least close his eyes and pray for strength. He found himself unable to do either, though, and was trapped as if spellbound in between Keith’s brash error and the king’s mounting rage. 

The king set his knife and fork down with a forceful  _ clack _ .  _ “ _ **_I_ ** _ am a proper, baptized Christian man. I can make my own oaths.  _ **_You_ ** _ are the only one who needs a proxy,” _ he told him, words sharp and biting.

_ “So many rules… now I know why our little priest is so stiff!” _ Keith laughed and clapped Shiro on the shoulder.  _ “Fine, then. Shiro, tell the king I agree to his terms. We will wait in our camp for payment without attacking, so long as they provide the payment.” _

_ “And what will stop you from simply killing your captive and going back on your word?” _ Ælle asked.

_ “Then I would lose my bargaining chip, wouldn’t I?” _ Keith replied. Unseen, under the table, his hand sought out Shiro’s knee and squeezed him – a reassurance that the words were only for the benefit of the king.  _ “Besides, we Galrans are not without morals; among us, there is no greater dishonor than that of an oath breaker.” _ He tipped his chin down and eyed the king pointedly.  _ “I can only hope – for  _ **_your_ ** _ sakes – that you Saxons hold yourself to a similar standard.”  _

His words were a dagger dipped in honey. An insult, just barely hidden behind a veil. A threat disguised as a challenge. 

King Ælle was silent for several long moments as he regarded Keith, matching his measured gaze with one of his own. Shiro wanted to thank both God  _ and  _ Odin when the king finally nodded.  _ “Then we are in agreement, Keith of Galra.” _ He poked at his food once more, occasionally shooting glares at the Galran leader. 

_ “Good.” _ Keith smiled, the curve of his lips razor-sharp and far too cold to reach his eyes. He released his hold on Shiro’s knee under the table and reached for another serving platter. 

Later, after the meal had finished and the king was painstakingly explaining to Keith why he and his men could not take the gilt drinking goblets back to their camp as the first part of their payment, Æthelwulf came over to Shiro. He stood beside him, both of them watching the spectacle. 

_ “The Lord delivereth and rescueth, and he worketh signs and wonders in Heaven in Earth, who hath delivered Daniel from the power of the lions,” _ he murmured, low enough that only Shiro could hear him.  _ “God will reward you soon enough.” _

Without another word, he walked away. Shiro watched him go, and lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck as the hairs there stood up. He knew those words, of course – in fact, that had been the very verse he had been carefully inking into the manuscript he had been working on at the Garrison, just before the Galrans had attacked the monastery. Still, they worried him now.

God only rescued Daniel because Daniel was unwavering in his faith, Shiro thought to himself. What if this Daniel did not truly want to leave these lions?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early attempts to bring Christianity to Scandinavia were so funny because the reactions they got mostly ranged from respectful “that’s nice, but no thank you, we’ve already got our own beliefs” to “I mean, sure, we can add your Jesus and Mary to the pantheon I guess. The more the merrier, right?” (which was _not_ what the missionaries were looking to accomplish). 
> 
> Also, _*pauses to lay face-down on the ground*_ it has come to my attention that Vikings didn’t wear war paint, and they wore chain-mail rather than leather/lamellar armor. Just file that under the many inaccuracies of this fic that I just don’t feel like going back to change. Whatever, it’s inspired by the TV show “Vikings”, which isn’t exactly historically accurate to begin with (there’s no historical evidence that the freaking _main character_ even existed, for starters). Yes I’m aware of the inaccuracies, please don’t come for me, I’m just trying to have a good time. But let it be known that still NO ONE IS WEARING HORNED HELMETS, DAMN IT. *kicks that nonsense back to 1876 where it belongs*


	11. Weighed and Measured

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry this took so long to get out. Things have been getting busier and I have some IRL obligations I need to focus on, which means less time to devote to creative stuff like writing. Chapters may come slower from now on, but I hope to be able to update at least once a month. I’m sorry I can’t give a more concrete schedule, as it will largely depend on when I have time to write, and I myself don’t even know that. Thank you in advance for your patience.
> 
> Content Warnings: This is kinda a gnarly chapter. There’s a battle, but I don’t think it’s _too_ in-depth. I would put the “blood/gore” level at about that of a Marvel movie -- there, in that blood and some injuries are mentioned, but it is nowhere near as bloody as something like the actual “Vikings” show. There is one notable exception, though, so **CONTENT WARNING** for minor character death by axe-to-the-neck (if you are sensitive to that, please watch out for the paragraph or two between _Shiro rammed his shield into him hard enough to knock him down…_ and _He got to his feet…_ )
> 
> Chapter title comes from [“Which Witch”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U9ResoPFfhc&list=PLRE-bhXr96jatYUXw_utO5IoCkXqvW1fP&index=39&t=0s) by Florence + the Machine. Despite only being a “demo” it is one of my favorite songs, and it fits Shiro so well in this chapter

“I still say we should attack,” Lance muttered, running a whetstone over his blade. Two days had passed, and still the Galrans were waiting in their camp. 

“I gave them my word,” Keith said. He lay on his back in the grass, idly tossing a pebble in the air and catching it before it could fall upon his face. “Would you make me an oath-breaker?” He tossed the stone sharply to the side, where it struck Lance’s knee. He kicked out of reflex, but not pain, and only growled as he snatched up the pebble and lobbed it into Keith’s stomach. 

“There they are!” Regris shouted, pointing. 

Everyone looked up and got to their feet, peering into the treeline as a pair of Saxon warriors emerged with a horse-cart piled high with chests. They drove the cart into the clearing and quickly unhitched the horse, casting nervous looks at the Galrans watching them and running back to the trees as soon as they were able. 

Hunk frowned. “That horse can haul two thousand pounds, plus the weight of the cart?” 

Suspicious murmurs went up among the crowd, and Keith felt an ominous coldness twist in his gut. He jerked his head towards the cart. “Go and check.” 

Regris and Ulaz ran out, weapons at the ready. The rest of them watched from the camp as they pulled down the chests and opened them. Regris threw one to the side and kicked it over in a fit of rage, revealing bare insides as it tipped. “They’re empty!” Ulaz shouted back. 

Keith’s eyes flashed dangerously, then he sucked in a sharp breath. “Behind you!” He shouted, just as a volley of arrows came whizzing out of the treeline. 

Both Galrans managed to get behind the cart and raise their shields in time, leaving the round boards peppered with arrows. They ran back towards the camp just as two dozen Saxons came charging out of the woods.

“We can take them!” Keith shouted, and the warriors roared in agreement as they charged out of the camp, swords and axes held aloft. They met the Saxons in the middle of the clearing, where their pitiful cart full of nothing but empty promises lay, and began to slash at them with rage. Through the chaos, Keith caught sight of Shiro fighting alongside him, but was soon distracted by a dark shadow falling over the cloudless sky and rushing toward them faster than a flock of ravens. 

“Shield wall!” Keith shouted as he seized Shiro’s arm and dragged him into the center of the group, and they all managed to lift their shields in time for the volley of arrows to thud into them, annoying but harmless – to them, at least. The Saxons who had been sent out as a distraction were not so fortunate. They fell as the arrows struck them, and those who were not killed instantly were in no fit state to continue fighting. They groaned and grunted with pain, rolling on the grass and clutching injured legs and arms.

When they peeked out from between the shields, they found a Saxon army forming ranks in front of them. Behind the first wall of infantrymen, atop his horse, sat Æthelwulf, armor gleaming in the sunlight. 

“They betrayed us,” Pidge snarled, somewhat unnecessarily.

“So there is to be war after all,” Hunk added grimly. 

“Take heart,” Thace told them. “Whether we live or die today is already in the hands of the gods! They already know if we dine with them tonight, so fear not! Fight well, and if you fall, surely Odin will take you to Valhalla!”

“Odin!” Regris shouted. 

Cheers of “Odin!” went up among the warriors as they charged forward. 

Shiro’s heart skipped a beat in his chest as the Saxons charged as well, and the pagan all-father god’s name sprang to his lips without thought. He shouted with them, ran with them, put his shield against theirs in the shield-wall… It was madness like he had never known, vicious and chaotic and terrifying, but he hadn’t time to be truly afraid. All thoughts were reduced down to  _ live, live, LIVE,  _ and the only way to keep his life was to take it from his enemies.

At some point, Æthelwulf’s horse had been brought down – Shiro nearly tripped over its body – but the nobleman himself was lost somewhere in the melee. Perhaps he had even turned tail and fled, Shiro thought. He seemed the type to save himself rather than stay and fight a dying battle. The Saxons might have outnumbered them, but it was obvious that the Galrans were turning the tide in their favor through sheer skill and fervor. Shiro could see there was fear in the Saxons’ eyes, fear that only mounted with every war cry and vicious, unflinching attack.

Suddenly, Shiro spotted Æthelwulf at the edge of the fray. So he hadn’t fled, after all. His heart stopped cold in his chest when he saw the nobleman run at Keith, whose back was turned as he fought off another two Saxons in front of him. He couldn’t call out a warning to him – it would only distract Keith and leave him open to an attack from the other two.

There was no time to consider what to do. Shiro charged at him with a war cry on his lips, and rammed into Æthelwulf from the side, shoving him bodily out of his trajectory on Keith. He managed to move the Saxon only a few precious feet, but it was the difference between life and death. 

Keith glanced at him and nodded, as much an exchange of thanks as they were able in the chaos, before turning back to his own opponents, his back against Shiro’s. Shiro, meanwhile, found himself face to face with the king’s brother at the edge of the melee. 

_ “Stand down, Brother Shirogane,” _ Æthelwulf told him.  _ “This isn’t your fight. Stand aside now, or turn on your captors and fight with us. Come back to the monastery, and we can reward you ー we can make you an abbot, or even a bishop, who can advise the king! All you need to do is stand aside.” _

Shiro dug his toes into the earth and sprang forward with a snarl, swinging his axe at Æthelwulf. The nobleman glared at him, enraged, as he parried the blow with his sword. 

_ “May God strike you where you stand for your betrayal,” _ he growled, and spat in Shiro’s direction.

Shiro rammed his shield into him hard enough to knock him down. He was careless in his hit, driven by rage, and ended up following the Saxon to the ground with an almighty clang of wooden round-shield against plate armor. 

_ “ _ **_No one_ ** _ will strike me down. It is  _ **_I_ ** _ who will do the striking, here,” _ he snarled, then brought his axe down hard into the nobleman’s neck with a sickening  _ thud _ . Blood splattered his face, his clothes, his shield… and dripped down onto Æthelwulf’s lifeless body. Shiro looked down at him, panting.  _ “I make my own destiny,” _ he told the corpse.

He got to his feet and found Keith watching him, his own opponents lying sprawled on the ground behind him. But the look lasted only a moment, and before Shiro could begin to decipher the emotion underneath all the blood on Keith’s face, there were more opponents to defend themselves from. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

The battle was over quickly, after that. The remaining Saxons became disorganized and lost some of their fighting spirit in the wake of their leader’s death. After what felt like an eternity, the battle was over and the Galrans were cheering their victory. Shiro looked up at the sky and was shocked to find the sun in much the same position as it had been before they started. The whole ordeal could not have lasted more than an hour, and yet it felt as if years had passed. No matter how much time it had been, Shiro had no doubt that he walked away from the battle a different man.

Their side had not escaped completely unscathed – a handful of warriors had been lost, and not a single one of them was left without some form of injury. Shiro himself had suffered a shallow slice across the bridge of his nose that he only discovered when he went to wipe the blood away, only to find it smarting and welling up fresh blood. He was also fairly certain he had broken a rib or few when a Saxon had managed to get behind his guard, and his right arm felt as if it were made of molten lead and ached something terribly from swinging his axe. Everything ached, actually, including his heart as he sat on the hillside and looked over the carnage – the fallen warriors and the living nursing their wounds still on the battlefield – and wondered how on earth he had gotten here. 

Keith came over and sat beside him on the grass, resting his arms on his raised knees with a heavy sigh. “The first battle is always the most painful,” he said softly. 

Shiro said nothing. He was not a killer; only a few short years ago, the most violence he had witnessed was painting a manuscript of Saint George slaying a vicious dragon, the blood only red ink. Now he was here on the battlefield himself, and the red painting him was not ink, and he didn’t know if the dragons were those he had slayed or those he had fought shield-to-shield with. Perhaps they were all dragons, after all. Perhaps he was, too. 

Keith let him be with his thoughts for a few minutes, the Galran playing with something he held in his hands. “You fought well today,” he said finally. “You did not hesitate. I would not be here now, if it hadn’t been for you.” 

Shiro wanted to believe that was wrong, that someone would have stepped in and saved Keith, even if he had not. But his memory of the battle even less than an hour ago was already hazy and confused – as chaotic as the battle itself had been. He wasn’t sure someone could have come to Keith’s aid. Keith would have died, stabbed in the back by a traitor of a man. He would be gone from this world. And that thought cut Shiro deeper than any axe-blow to the chest.

“I have something for you,” Keith went on. “It’s time I gave this to you. You have most certainly earned it.”

Shiro looked over and found him holding up a silver bracelet. The wrought metal twisted in a smooth curve, and the two ends were shaped like the sea dragons the Galrans carved on the curled prows of their ships. 

Shiro looked up, meeting Keith’s eyes, and saw that even under the drying blood, dirt, and battle-fatigue, Keith was smiling at him. It was a tired smile, but one full of pride all the same. “You know what this is?” 

“An arm-ring,” Shiro replied. “The sign of a free man, and the thing upon which you swear fealty to your jarl.” 

Keith nodded. “Take it, if you wish. But know that regardless of whether or not you choose to pledge your loyalty to Kolivan as your jarl, I will give you this and your freedom. The choice to swear such fealty is yours, as a free man.” 

Shiro looked at it for a long moment, then reached out and took the arm-ring. “I have no qualms with swearing fealty to Kolivan as my jarl. I will gladly do it. Should I wait until we return?” 

“I can do the ceremony in his stead,” Keith said, after just a moment of hesitation. The words that passed between them in that moment of silence – that there was a chance that they might not make it back – were left unspoken. He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, fixing Shiro with a look that was both proud and serious. “Any oath you swear on this ring must be honored and kept. Do you understand and swear to this?” 

“I do.” Shiro nodded.

“This arm-ring also binds you in loyalty to your jarl, Kolivan of Marmora,” Keith went on. “Do you freely give your loyalty to jarl Kolivan?” 

“I do,” Shiro said. “I pledge my loyalty to both jarl Kolivan and you, Keith.”

Keith hesitated, looking taken aback, and his professional aura dispersed into confusion. “That is not necessary…”

“Is it forbidden?” Shiro asked.

“No,” Keith said slowly. “It just… isn’t done. No one swears loyalty to the jarl’s wife.” 

“You are hardly like other jarls’ wives,” Shiro reminded him. “I’ve fought alongside you. You’ve saved my life many times and taught me many things – Kolivan as well. I wish to swear my loyalty to the both of you.” 

Keith’s expression softened into a smile. “Then you may.” 

Shiro held the arm-ring in front of him and looked Keith in the eyes. “I do so swear my loyalty and allegiance to jarl Kolivan and you, Keith. Now and forever.” 

Keith nodded. “Then it is done. You may put on the arm-ring.” 

Shiro looked down at it in his hands, thumbing over the wrought silver for a moment, then slid the open ends around his wrist. The metal was warm against his skin, and not as heavy as he had thought it might be. 

“You know,” Lance’s voice made him look up, and he found the lanky warrior standing a short distance away watching them with some Saxon’s helmeted, severed head tucked under his arm and a fistful of retrieved arrows gathered in his hand. He grinned slyly. “When my little cousin from Kattegat got his arm-ring, the jarl’s wife gave him a kiss after the ceremony. You know, to celebrate his ascension to manhood.”

“Lance.” Keith’s voice was a hard command veiling a warning.

“Just saying. It’s the done thing, you know.” Lance shrugged.

“ _ Lance _ .” 

“I mean, every town in Galra does it,” Lance didn’t seem to know when to quit. “You’re the only one who’s stingy with your kisses–” 

“Lance!” Keith lifted the tip of his sword and pointed it at him, one brow raised in challenge. “Final warning.” 

Lance held up his hands in a shrug of surrender and wandered off to continue raiding the quivers of any fallen archers. Keith let his sword fall to the earth again with a sigh. 

They sat together in silence for a few moments, then Keith cleared his throat. “I guess, technically, he is right. I just don’t do that.” He was quiet for a beat, then, “I mean, unless you  _ want  _ a kiss?”

Shiro chuckled and looked down at his hands – covered in dirt, grime, and dried blood. “I don’t think I’m exactly fit to be kissed, actually.” 

Keith turned to look at him, his brows pulled low in a concerned furrow. Before Shiro had time to ask him what was wrong, Keith seized him by his face and swooped in to plant a kiss on his lips. It was hard and brief, lasting only a moment before Keith pulled back to look at him, his hands still caressing his cheeks as if he wasn’t covered in blood and grime from the battle.

“Never doubt that you are worthy of being kissed, Shiro,” Keith told him seriously. “Never doubt that you are worthy of being loved. You could have anyone you want, and they would be lucky to have you.” 

Shiro stared at him, his mind rendered as unsubstantial and sputtering as a flickering flame. “...I only meant that I am covered in blood at the moment,” he said slowly. “Surely… surely that can’t be pleasant for anyone to kiss…”

Keith blinked, and even under the blood and war paint, his cheeks seemed to grow pink. “Ah. Right.” He released Shiro quickly and moved to put a few inches of distance between them, clearing his throat. “Well, as you can see, that doesn’t usually stop us,” he lifted his chin to gesture at Pidge and Hunk out in the middle of the battlefield, who had paused in their work cleaning up the bodies to share a tender, relief-filled kiss, with the smaller shield-maiden stretched up on her toes and the larger boat-builder’s hand caressing her blood-smeared cheek. 

“I suppose that’s true,” Shiro acknowledged. Having felt the terror and fervor of battle himself, he now had a better understanding of the overwhelming relief of finding those you cared about still alive. 

Keith clapped him on the shoulder and rose to his feet. It was a familiar gesture between them, but it felt different – more awkward – this time. Perhaps because Keith wouldn’t look at him or meet his eyes. “Come on. Let’s go get that cut on your face taken care of. And then, we still have much to do.” 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

The wound on his face was shallow, and while it might scar, it had not seriously damaged anything beneath the skin, Ulaz determined. He helped Shiro clean the wound and laid a damp cloth over it to help prevent scabbing, then the two of them set to work bandaging the other injured warriors. 

He spotted Keith again some time later with a sack full of Saxon helmets and weapons, which he handed off to Thace before Ulaz corralled him over to the medical corner and sat him down on a stump to treat his injuries. Keith grumbled like a discontent cat but allowed Ulaz to spread some herbal salve on the enormous bruise purpling his brow. 

“Keith!” Someone called out, and they looked up to find two Galran warriors with an enormous log held between them on their shoulders. “Where should we take this?”

Keith twisted as much as he was able with Ulaz’s firm grip on his head and pointed. “That clearing over there. Not too close to camp.” 

Shiro watched them leave. “What are they building?” He asked. 

“A funeral pyre,” Keith replied. “Two of them, actually. One for our fallen brothers and sisters, and one for the Saxons.” 

Shiro was silent as he thought about it, wondering if he ought to say something. 

Keith glanced at him, as if he could hear his thoughts. “What do the Christians do with their dead?” 

“Christians believe that burning the body desecrates it,” Shiro explained. “They bury their dead in consecrated – blessed – land, facing east, in a grave that is six feet deep into the earth to prevent disruption of the corpse.”

Keith let out a heavy sigh and looked out at the battlefield, littered with dozens of bodies. It would be a hard task to bury them all. “Fine. Hunk!” he called out, and the man turned to look at him. “Tell them to cease building the second pyre, and start digging a pit – as deep as a man is tall. We’ll bury the Saxons there.” 

“Alright,” Hunk still looked a little confused by the idea of burying whole, uncremated bodies. “Um, where, exactly?” 

Keith looked around, his eyes coming to rest on the Repton Abbey in the distance. “You said the ground has to be blessed? And that there are kings already buried under that church?” He asked Shiro. 

“Yes. And yes, the kings are buried in the crypt under the church, but there won’t be enough room to bury all these soldiers there…” Shiro said slowly. Plus, the rank of the warriors wouldn’t be high enough to warrant burial in the crypt with the ancient kings… not to mention he didn’t even know how the pagans would be allowed  _ in  _ the abbey… 

“Dig the pit in the churchyard, then. To the east of the building,” Keith told Hunk, who nodded and hurried off. He turned to Shiro. “I know you have some doubts at the moment, but you were still a priest. Can you perform whatever rituals are needed for a Christian burial?” 

“I can,” Shiro said carefully. “But… why are you doing all this? Why go to the trouble of giving your enemies a proper burial?” 

Keith shrugged. “They were still warriors who fought well. Don’t they deserve to sup with their god, in their own Valhalla?”

“Heaven,” Shiro corrected. He studied Keith for a moment. “You have some other motive,” he commented quietly. 

Keith’s expression twisted into something hard. “They fought with honor. But they were forced to die a dishonorable death, one not of their own making.” When Shiro looked at him, perplexed, he went on. “That Æthelwulf sent his men out to fight us, only to have more of his men fire onto the battlefield – onto his  _ own warriors _ . He sacrificed them. Do you think they were told? Do you think he asked for volunteers brave enough to lay their lives on the line?” He scoffed and shook his head. “He did not strike me as the kind of man who would, nor the kind of man who valued his warriors’ lives as anything other than fodder in his own selfish battles. He did not allow them an honorable death. They deserve an honorable burial, at least.” 

Shiro had not considered that. “And… what will you do with Æthelwulf?” He asked, as cautious as he was curious. 

Keith’s expression darkened as quickly as a storm moving over the open sea. “He is an oath-breaker. Among us, there is no greater dishonor,” Keith growled and got to his feet. “But he still has one role left to play. Come. I will show you what we will do with him.” 

Shiro felt an apprehension bordering on fear creep around his heart like frost covering a lake as he followed Keith out to the field where the battle had raged. The cart and its empty boxes had been crushed under the ensuing battle, but a few men were binding pieces of it together to make a litter, and another was soothing one of the horses that had managed to escape the battle unscathed. 

As they walked up, two men rolled a body clad in plate armor – Æthelwulf – onto the litter and lashed the corpse to it with rags and ropes. The head, nearly severed all the way through by Shiro’s axe blow, lolled to the side, and Shiro had to close his eyes as someone drove a stake through the mouth to secure it to the litter. It had to be done, he supposed; if the head fell off during transport, there was no guarantee that the king would know who it was (or more likely, would simply  _ deny  _ knowing who it was) 

“I trust you can still write in your native language?” Keith turned to Shiro. 

Shiro looked at him. “Of course.” 

Keith jerked his chin at the corpse of the king’s brother. “Then write the king a message. Tell him he has dishonored himself, and that this is his last chance to make good on his word before our patience runs out and we will attack.”

Shiro didn’t know how he was supposed to write such a message. Any note secured to the body was at risk of falling off on the journey. Furthermore, he had no parchment, nor a pen nor ink.

He crouched down beside the body. The grass was still wet with blood, and he dipped a finger into a pool of it. Carefully, he traced his finger over the cold skin of Æthelwulf’s brow, leaving the words  _ ‘Proverbs 25: 8-10, 17’ _ in his wake. 

Shiro rose to his feet. Keith smacked the horse’s flank, sending the creature running back to the castle with the litter in tow. 

“What did you write?” Pidge asked, curious. 

“Go not forth hastily to strive, lest thou know not what to do in the end thereof, when thy neighbour hath put thee to shame,” Shiro recited. “Debate thy cause with thy neighbour himself, and discover not a secret to another, lest he that heareth it put thee to shame, and thine infamy turn not away... Withdraw thy foot from thy neighbour’s house, lest he be weary of thee, and so hate thee.” 

Keith huffed softly, a grim smile spreading over his lips. 

Pidge and Lance exchanged a confused look. 

“You wrote all that, on that dude’s forehead?” Lance asked. “I watched you write, like, one word, maybe two.”

“King Ælle will understand it,” Shiro said. He was, after all, a man of God. Or so he claimed to be.

“Good.” Keith nodded. “And now that the living are taken care of, it is time to deal with the dead.”

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

The sun was beginning to dip low towards the tree-line by the time they finished the preparations. The Galran warriors who had fallen in battle were laid on their ship-shaped funeral pyre, and after a speech asserting their bravery and strength, as well as assurances that they would be taken to Valhalla to dine with the gods, Keith lit the pyre. 

After the pyre had burned, the more seriously-injured warriors returned to camp, while those who were able helped transport the Saxon soldiers’ bodies over to the pit that had been dug in the shadow of the chapel tower. At Shiro’s direction, they tried to orient the bodies facing east, but a few turned as they were dropped into the pit, and no one opted to climb down and fix them. 

When all the dead had been laid in the ground, Shiro stepped up to the edge of the grave. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his hand to recite the blessing... and the light of the setting sun glinted off the silver arm-ring that now graced his wrist, blinding him for a moment. He closed his eyes and recited the last rites and prayers for the deceased in Latin. The Galrans stood a short distance behind him, and he could feel their stares on his back, but their silence was respectful at least. They did not echo the final  _ “amen” _ with him, but he did not expect them to – after all, he doubted they could understand what he said. 

When he finally lowered his hands and opened his eyes, he took a deep breath. He felt as though all the exhaustion of the day had suddenly fallen upon him like a heavy, heavy cloak. “It is done,” he said. 

Keith nodded. “Fill in the grave with earth,” he told the Galrans watching, and they hastened to do so; the sun was already setting on this wretched day, and they would need the light to finish filling in the grave. 

As he looked over the scene in front of him, Shiro spotted a figure peering out of a window high in the tower of the abbey. He caught sight of white robes and what looked like a red or purple hat before the figure jumped as if startled and disappeared from the window. It had to be the abbot of the church, he thought. 

Shiro turned to say something about it to Keith, but found the Galran looking in the direction of that same window. There was a thin, grimly-set smile on his lips and something like victory behind the fatigue in his eyes. 

“You knew he was watching,” Shiro realized. “You…  _ wanted  _ him to see this.” 

Keith nodded. “No doubt whatever priest lives there saw the battle, and now he has seen the aftermath. He saw how we made efforts to care for the dead in their own way, after their leader led them to slaughter. And now he can run off and tell everyone he meets that the Galran savages of the north are not quite so savage after all.”

Shiro couldn’t help but be impressed. Keith’s prowess as a warrior was not limited to his strength in battle, it seemed, but also extended to his ability to navigate and even  _ command _ the complex world of politics that accompanied such war. Keith was right; the abbot’s words would have power in these parts, and that would be key to swaying the opinion the Saxons had for the invaders – invaders who, despite their different beliefs, had proven themselves to be just as human as the rest of them. A humanity that was at odds with that of their own monarch. 

Keith hadn’t just dug a grave in the earth and allowed the soldiers a proper burial. He had driven a stake into the heart of Mercia, into the king’s crumbling foundation. A stake that would remain planted there even after he left. And should he return, and that stake still remain, he could very well use it as a foothold to climb his way to the top.

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

The carts of gold and silver arrived the next morning. 

Once they were confirmed to be genuine, weighed, and no army came charging from the woods the moment they took it, Keith ordered the treasure to be loaded up onto the ships and for the camp to be broken down. They left on their ships that very same day and sailed back down the River Trent the way they had come. A few days later, they were back on the open sea, sailing north-east toward their home.

After marking their position with the sun board, Keith wandered the length of the ship checking on his warriors. Spirits were high from their victory over the Saxons and from the haul in their cargo chests, but were also subdued by the spaces left by the ones they had lost in the battle. This might be the way of their life of raiding and fighting, he thought, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear each time it happened. 

Keith spotted Shiro sitting beside the curved hull of the ship, near the fore. His cloak was drawn tight around his shoulders to protect him from the cold, but his face was turned toward the sea, letting the brisk wind and salty spray cool his face. The last time he had made this journey – from England to Galra – he had been huddled in the center near the mast, his hands bound, and had perpetually glared at Keith. Now, he didn’t even look back as the English coast disappeared behind them, and Keith was glad to see a smile on his face as he looked ahead. 

Crossing his arms, Keith strode over to him and dropped down beside him with a sigh, drawing his knees up to his chest. It was warmer against the bulwark like this, but was still cold. 

Shiro looked at him, blinking. “What happened to your cloak?” He asked, concern furrowing his brow. 

“Gave it to Regris,” Keith replied, tucking his hands into his armpits. “Idiot took a dagger to the shoulder. He needs the warmth more than I do.” 

Shiro turned to look behind him and saw that Regris did, in fact, have Keith’s warm, russet-red, woolen cloak wrapped tight around himself, save for where it was pulled aside as Ulaz examined the bandages covering the deep gash in his shoulder. The Galran man did look a little pale in the sunlight. 

The ship cut through a wave like a smooth, sharpened knife, and a burst of spray misted down over Keith’s head. He scowled and wiped the moisture off his face. 

“Here,” Shiro said, unfastening his cloak. “This is yours, after all.” 

“I gave it to you,” Keith reminded him. “It is yours.” Especially now that Shiro could, legally, hold ownership over his belongings. As if to echo that, the silver arm-ring on his wrist glinted in the sunlight as he stripped the cloak off. 

“Then it is mine to do with as I please.” Damn his quick wit, Keith thought. Shiro went on, “take it. I insist.” 

Keith considered it, then scooted closer to Shiro until they were touching, side to side. “We’ll share it.” That was not so strange; warriors and ship-mates shared resources and company when scarcity and cold reigned. That was all it was, Keith told himself as he spread the length over them both like a blanket. 

“Alright.” There was a smile in Shiro’s voice, but Keith didn’t dare look at him to see it. This was just practical, he reasoned. That’s all it was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can post the picture of Shiro now! Since it contained minor spoilers of his scar which he didn't get until this chapter. Here is my mediocre art attempt for you to enjoy: [Shiro](https://bouquetofwhoopsiedaisies25.tumblr.com/post/618959621986582528/shiro-from-what-tomorrow-brings-my-vikings)
> 
> So, history confession time, the mass grave discovered on the grounds of the Repton Abbey was full of remains of a Scandinavian descent, not English (as evidenced by the sheer amount of seafood they ate). And aside from the single grave of what is thought to be a king (BOY HOWDY was that an interesting death there… dude died from a great-axe blow to the thigh in such a way where he also lost his dick, so his warriors made sure to put a boar tusk between his legs when they buried him so he could still have fun in the afterlife), the bones were also mostly free of grievous injuries, indicating that they probably died of illness during the time that the Great Heathen Army wintered in the Repton/Foremark area. It was, however, still a pretty ballsy political move to bury _their_ dead average people in the churchyard of the religious center of Mercia, usually reserved for kings and nobility. Back in those days, politics and religion were so closely intertwined that you couldn’t have one without the other constantly influencing it (Something I tried to show with this and the previous chapter)
> 
> Also, fun fact, they can tell where the army spent the winter because the Vikings managed to drop over _300 gaming pieces_. They came to conquer and _brought their tabletop games with them_. GOD I love history.
> 
> ~~I’m the kinda dude who spends his trans-pacific flight watching history documentaries and TAKING NOTES and reference photos of the tiny airplane-seat screen, DON’T JUDGE ME OKAY, I can SEE you judging me, couple sitting next to me downing peach bellinis, LET ME LIVE MY LIFE~~


	12. Let the Words Run Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kolivan – the keeper of the one collective brain cell the three of them share – plays a little matchmaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I’m waiting for you, you’re waiting for me. Afraid of what we’ll find if we let the words run free_  
> 
> 
> ( _The Waiting Game_ by Kalandra)
> 
>   
> Fun fact: skalds were poets in Scandinavia in the Viking Age and parts of the Medieval Age, who sang the praises of the jarl or king they worked for, or sometimes recounted old stories. Skaldic poetry had a tendency to be complex in terms of story and structure, using grammar and words that were often difficult or sometimes even impossible for people to decipher. _“Fed the raven”_ was a common-enough euphemism for _“killed lots of enemies in battle, which were then eaten by ravens/crows”_ , but skalds would often take it one step further and say something like _“let the the wound-swans dance on their backs with bloodied feet”_ , which is as horrific an image as it is Extra™. Oh and that infamous “blood eagle” ritual that wanna-be-Viking-white-fuckboys and Viking-hating-pearl-clutchers alike tend to fixate on? Hate to break it to them, but that was most likely more skaldic poetry nonsense, since the Norse skald Sigvat’s poem that says _“Ivar caused the eagle to cut the back of Ælle”_ was just a fancy-ass way of saying _“Ivar killed Ælle in battle, thus providing carrion for the eagle to eat”_. Like, yes, the Vikings were brutal in many ways, but given that this particular depiction’s only evidence is stories from people whose literal job was embellishing everyday events into epic tales, maaaayybe take that with a grain of salt.
> 
> Basically skalds were dramatic b*tches and Lance fancies himself a dramatic b*tch as well, despite being just a farmer and Viking. Hence why his speech in part 2 gets a little more flowery than our typical narration.
> 
> Chapter title comes from “the waiting game” by Kalandra. I only discovered this song after I started writing, but holy heck is it absolutely PERFECT for this trio and their slow-burn story here.

Their arrival back in Marmora was met with much joy and cheering. Kolivan was there at the dock to greet them, his eyes brimming with pride and his lips curved up in a smile despite the scar that perpetually fought to tug half of his mouth down. Keith climbed off the boat and clasped his arm in a greeting, but carefully averted a welcome kiss by turning his head under the pretext of gesturing at the chests of gold they had brought back. He knew Kolivan noticed, but thankfully he didn’t press him.

When the cargo, weapons, and injured warriors had all been unloaded from the ship and everyone was reunited with their loved ones, Kolivan and Keith managed to slip away from the crowd and retreat to their home. Shiro did not come with them ー upon hearing that Shiro had come to her son’s aid in the battle and helped him fend off three Saxons that had ganged up on him, Colleen Holt had hugged him tightly and dragged him off to their house to thank him with food and an ale ー so they were really alone, and Keith couldn’t hide the truth any longer. 

“How was the journey, husband?” Kolivan hummed with a knowing lilt to his voice. He must have known  _ something  _ had happened, but Keith was afraid of what he might think once he learned what it was. 

“I kissed Shiro,” Keith blurted out. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and looked down at his feet, unable to make himself meet his husband’s eyes when he said it. It probably made him look like a child being scolded, but truth be told, that was a pretty accurate reflection of how he felt. “Don’t worry, though. It meant nothing. It was… an accident.” 

“An accident?” Kolivan didn’t sound upset, only bemused. “How does one kiss ‘by accident’?” 

“I… misunderstood,” Keith said, his heart feeling heavy. 

“And I do not yet understand. Perhaps you had best start at the beginning?” Kolivan took a seat at the table and patted the spot next to him on the bench. “I am not angry with you, Keith. Let me be clear about that.” 

That helped to ease his worries. A little bit, at least. It didn’t get rid of his embarrassment in the slightest, though. 

Keith dropped onto the bench beside him, arms still crossed and gaze fixed on a knot in the tabletop. “The Saxon army ambushed us. In the battle, Shiro fought bravely and saved my life. For that, I gave him his arm-ring.” 

“I noticed he had it,” Kolivan nodded. His husband was as sharp as the eagle he bore on his scalp, Keith thought. Nothing got by him. Of course, Kolivan had been the one to commission the arm-ring, after all (though he had left the decision of when to give it to him up to Keith). 

“When I gave it to him, he… he swore fealty to you. And to me. Both of us,” his voice grew quiet at the admission. Keith still couldn’t believe it, and the thought still made his heart feel warm. “I told him he didn’t have to, but he insisted. And then, after—  _ aughhh _ …” he growled and raked his hands through his hair in frustration. “Lance kept running his mouth about how the jarl’s wife is supposed to offer a kiss after the ceremony, that asinine trickster son of a—” he trailed off with another growl and shook his head, ignoring Kolivan’s chuckle beside him. “Whatever, I told him to fuck off, and he did. But then Shiro saidー or, I  _ thought  _ he said something about not being worth kissing, and I just… I couldn’t let him think that. So… I did it.” Keith dropped his head into his hands. “Turns out he just meant that he was covered in blood and shit from the battle, and I ended up making a fool of myself. So it meant nothing to him, don’t worry.” 

Kolivan hummed thoughtfully, and Keith felt a broad, work-roughened hand rub his back between his shoulder blades. “And what did it mean to you?” His voice was warm and his touch was light, but the hand resting on his nape suddenly felt very heavy. 

“Kolivan…” Keith whispered ー a plea to let this drop. 

“I am not angry,” Kolivan repeated. “Merely curious. I know you care for him deeply – I feel the same. I knew that if he went with you, there was a chance something might happen between you two. I accept that and do not fear it.” He was quiet for a minute. “Did you lie with him?”

Keith looked up sharply, his eyes wide. “No! Of course not!” 

Kolivan regarded him evenly. “I would not mind if you had.” He tucked a lock of hair behind Keith’s ear, his touch cool against burning skin. “Although I must admit, I would prefer to witness such a sight myself,” he added, lips curving up and eyes darkening at the suggestive words. 

Red heat bloomed across Keith’s cheeks and his thoughts fizzled out like a sputtering candle flame. “Kolivan…” The word was only a breath with barely any sound to it, as Keith’s lungs suddenly felt too empty. 

“You’ve thought about it.” Kolivan’s voice was not accusatory, only knowing. “I have, too. Who is to say that Shiro has not as well?” 

“He does not.” Keith looked away, drilling his gaze into the knot on the table top. “He cannot. His god forbids it.” A god that even Shiro had admitted might not still be his, anymore. But following that thought would lead only to madness.

“His god forbids a great many things,” Kolivan hummed, his fingers idly tracing patterns over the back of Keith’s neck. “A great many of which he has done. He is a man like any other, Keith. His head is ruled by his heart, not some being in the heavens.” He chuckled to himself. “Perhaps, like any man, his head is sometimes ruled from lower than his heart, too.” 

“Don’t—” Keith cut him off. “We don’t know… You weren’t there, Kolivan; you didn’t see his face.” At the memory of it, Keith let his eyes fall closed and let his head drop into his hands, elbows propped up on the table. “He was surprised, he wasn’t expecting it. He hasn’t been thinking about it,” he said, his voice hollow. 

Kolivan was quiet for a long time, but his hand was a steady comfort on Keith’s nape. Finally, he sighed and got to his feet. “Whatever you say.” He bent down to wrap his arms around Keith’s middle and rested his chin on his shoulder. “But do not continue to torment yourself with guilt. Even if it is as you say, then you did nothing wrong. You did only what any jarl’s wife would have done.” He pressed a kiss to Keith’s cheek. “Come. I will draw you a bath, and you can clean the dirt and sea salt from your skin after your long journey, then get ready for your welcome feast.” 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬ 

After two years of living with the Galrans, Shiro had grown accustomed to their feasts. The sacrifices no longer startled him, the toasts to their gods no longer disgusted him, and their strong ale no longer burned his throat and wreaked havoc on his head. This was, however, the first feast where he was not busy rushing about cooking platters of meats or refilling the goblets and drinking horns of the warriors, himself only indulging in a few bites of food and sips of watered-down ale where he stood against the wall with the other slaves. Instead, he was pulled over to a table by Lance almost immediately upon entering the longhouse and was seated on a bench between him and Pidge, with Hunk passing him a wooden cup filled with strong ale before he had even fully sat down. Congratulations and friendly smacks on the back were exchanged, and Shiro found himself feeling almost shy in the face of so much attention. Especially once the stories started, and the warriors took turns regaling the townsfolk with (sometimes quite embellished) tales of the battles they had fought and sights they had seen. Tales that, for the first time, included Shiro’s deeds. 

“...and the sky went dark as night as hundreds of arrows descended upon the battlefield, felling bodies all around,” Lance swept his hand dramatically from his perch up on the table while all eyes turned to him. “The Saxons charged from their cowardly hiding place in the woods, bursting out with savage war-cries. We surged from our shield-wall with swords raised and axes swinging, archers’ bows singing from behind us, and we met them in a fierce battle. Their skill could not match ours, and it was they, not we, who fed the wound-swans who fell upon the field in droves of night-colored feathers and hoarse cries!” 

Everyone let out cheers and raised their cups and drinking horns. So far there was little embellishment other than what a skald might sing, Shiro thought as he watched Hunk pass a cup of ale up to Lance.

After draining the cup, Lance tossed it back to Hunk and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, eyes glittering. “I myself felled a hundred Saxons—” ah, there it was. Shouts went up among the crowd, both of disbelief and contradiction, but Lance just waved them off. “Alright, alright. But there  _ were  _ great deeds beyond belief on that day. For you see, that beast of a man, that liar brother of a liar king, he marked himself a coward in his last moments, and it was one of us—” he turned and sought out Shiro, “—who defeated this foul beast who dared to call himself a man.” He turned to address the crowd, this time lifting his refilled cup towards the high table. “While our beloved battle-leader, Keith, was nobly engaged in combat with scores of other Saxons, the brother of the king without morals crept up on him like a coward, like a vulture descending upon a wolf already devouring its well-won prey in the hopes of stealing glory for his undeserving self. But Shiro—” he turned with a grin and lifted his cup to him. “—Shiro proved himself true and brave, for it was he who cut down that foul fiend with a fierce cry, his axe biting into the coward and coming back dripping red as rubies. Is it any wonder that Keith chose to gift him an arm-ring ー and with it, his freedom and more ー after such bravery?” 

Cheers erupted from the audience and people thumped Shiro on the back. He smiled, feeling abashed in the face of such attention.

“He said something to that coward before he felled him,” Lance went on, “in that garbled Saxon tongue, which even at the best of times sounds like rocks tumbling over each other… Oh but this time, those rocks were boulders, which crashed and roared as they fell down the hillside as if flung by giants. They were words charged with such anger that even we Galrans could understand the emotion, if not the meaning.” He turned to Shiro. “What was it that you said to him? Did he plead for his life in his final moments?” 

Shiro breathed out a soft huff through his nose. He was no skald, nor did he have Lance’s flair for the dramatic, but he would try. “No,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. “He bade me to turn on the brothers I have made and fight against them, and he cursed me when I did not comply. I told him I am the maker of my own choices, my own destiny, and that I did not fear the curses of such a man as he.” 

More cheers and toasts of “skål!” went up at his words. Shiro looked over toward the high table and found Keith beaming at him with pride in his eyes. Kolivan, seated beside him, had his elbow propped up on the arm of his chair and his chin resting in his palm, smiling warmly at him.

More stories were told, by Lance and several others — their own views of the battle, some triumphant and others much more somber as they detailed the brave and honorable ways their comrades fell and met their ends. Even the solemnest of tones were lifted by assurances of their loved ones’ places in Valhalla, though, with many more cheers and toasts. 

Eventually, the stories came to an end and people brought out drums, flutes, and lyres. A space was cleared in the center of the hall, and people danced and drank to their hearts’ content to the tune of clapping hands and stamping feet. Even those who did not join in the dancing often got up and changed tables, talking and drinking with everyone in turn. Those seated at the high table left their places and mingled among the crowd, and Shiro caught sight of Keith and Regris attempting to drag Antok onto the dance floor (rather unsuccessfully, as the large and stoic berserkr refused to budge despite their cajoling). 

Kolivan took a seat beside Shiro at the table and passed him another ale. “How do you find your first feast as a freed man?” He asked him.

Shiro chuckled. “I have an irresistible urge to help with the serving and cleaning.” 

“A habit that can be broken with enough food and ale,” Kolivan acknowledged. “Rest. It seems you have earned it.” 

Shiro chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Lance’s stories are rather embellished accounts…” 

“Embellishment has a root in truth,” Kolivan told him. “Besides, I believe I received a more accurate account before Lance climbed on my table like a mountain goat. Your deeds are still very worthy of praise.”

Shiro took his eyes off the warriors dancing drunkenly in the center of the mead hall. “Keith told you of the battle?” A small kernel of chilly trepidation bloomed in the midst of the warmth he felt. Had he told him what happened after, as well? 

“Of course. It was I who gave him that ring to give to you when he felt the time was right.” Kolivan pointed to the silver arm-ring that now graced Shiro’s wrist. “Naturally, I noticed when you returned wearing it, so he told me of what you did to earn it.” Kolivan met his eyes. “I cannot thank you enough for saving his life.” 

“He spared my life back at Garrison,” Shiro looked to where Keith was dancing with the others, flushed and laughing. “It was only fitting that I did what I could to save his, when the time came.” 

Kolivan rested an elbow on the table and propped his chin in his hand, his smile inexplicably fond. “You like him.” 

The statement took Shiro aback for a moment, but he managed to mask his surprise by taking a sip of his ale. “We get along, yes.” 

“You misunderstand me.” Kolivan softened his voice to a low timbre like a roll of summer thunder over the fjord, the kind that echoed off the cliffs surrounding them until it encompassed all who stood in its presence. “You have feelings for him. You wish to know what it would be like to lie beside him, to kiss him.  _ Really  _ kiss him – not just a fleeting peck for getting your arm-ring.”

This was a trap. It had to be. Of course Keith had told his husband everything. And now Kolivan was surely here to exact revenge. 

Shiro swallowed thickly. “You are married. I would never stand between you.”

“You need not,” Kolivan said easily. Too easily. “One can stand beside a couple without standing between them. As we told you before, ‘three people can’.” He chuckled at the memory, but Shiro was hardly laughing. He gripped his cup in a white-knuckled hold, as if it could anchor him when his thoughts were spinning a mile a minute. 

Kolivan lifted his cup to his lips. “He has feelings for you, too, you know. He is too bull-headed to see how much you care for him, though, so he will never admit it until you tell him. But he watches you the same way you watch him.” 

Shiro’s heart did some sort of strange flip in his chest — both euphoric and dreading. “Then… I am a temptation towards infidelity,” he said slowly, his voice hollow. “A threat to your marriage.” And if there was one thing he knew about these Galran Vikings, it was that they eliminated threats of any kind.

“Or a way to enrich it,” Kolivan said. “I love him. Why would I deprive him of happiness by denying the source of his happiness?”

“But if he has feelings for me, as you say, then… then what does that mean, for his feelings for you, his husband?” Shiro asked. 

“Why must it mean something? His love for you does not diminish his love for me, nor our marriage.” Kolivan reached for the pitcher on the table and refilled Shiro’s cup, then his own. “We humans are blessed with large hearts capable of loving many. There is nothing wrong with that. Nor is there anything wrong with acting on those desires, so long as all involved are in agreement.”

Shiro didn’t know what to say. Was Kolivan really offering what Shiro thought he was offering? 

Kolivan took a sip of his drink. “You said you are the maker of your own choices, your own destiny. In this, too, the choice is yours; the choice to act on your desires, or the choice to continue to bury them. But know that you are not the only one with such desires.” With that, he got to his feet, a hand resting on Shiro’s shoulder. The touch was only for balance, surely. Even if balance alone did not explain why that hand briefly squeezed his shoulder before releasing him, nor why Kolivan gave him a long, cryptic, strangely warm (surely just due to the fire flickering nearby) look before walking away. 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

After the feast came to a close and all the townsfolk dispersed to their own homes, Kolivan managed to pry his husband away from one last hnefatafl game with Regris (both of them were far too drunk for such a game, judging by the number of lead pieces that had fallen to the ground below, unnoticed). Shiro had already retired; he had tried to clean up the platters and cups with a sleepiness that let old habits break through, but had been gently steered away by Krolia, who reminded him he no longer needed to be concerned with such duties. Antok tossed a cup of water at Regris to wake him enough to get him to go home, and Keith laughed an uninhibited, snorting laugh at his sputtering friend as Kolivan guided him away toward their own house. Keith normally didn’t get this drunk at feasts, Kolivan knew, but there had been an awful lot of people pouring him ales and refilling his drinking horn while congratulating him on such courageous leadership during the raid. It was hardly surprising he had gotten a little carried away. 

“Seems you enjoyed yourself tonight,” Kolivan hummed as he looped an arm around Keith’s waist, as much for support as it was to feel the way his husband leaned into the touch with a soft sigh. 

“Indeed,” Keith swayed a little and smiled with a drunken sort of brightness at Kolivan while he locked the kitchen door behind them for the night. “And did you?”

“I did indeed,” Kolivan assured him, taking his hand to lead him to their room. Keith went a little too willingly and pitched into his chest before stretching up on his toes and trying to kiss him. Kolivan chuckled and curled a hand around his waist and behind his shoulders to support his precarious husband from tipping over. “I am just glad to have you home.” 

“Home,” Keith sighed wistfully, as if to release all the tension he had built up during the raid and voyage back. “I’m glad to be home. We all are. Do you think Shiro is, too?”

“I think so,” Kolivan chuckled. “He has made it no secret that he finds himself at home here. Thanks, in no small part, to you.” He pressed a kiss below Keith’s ear and worked his fingers through his braids to loosen them. 

“Mm,” Keith smiled, tilting his head into the touch. “I saw you talking with him. I’m glad he enjoyed the feast.” 

“Yes,” Kolivan agreed, leaning down to take advantage of Keith’s bared neck. He ran a hand down Keith’s back and felt him melt against him with a soft sigh; he was close to sleep, after the excitement of the day and the ale warming his veins. He did not seem so close to sleep that he would forget their conversation, though.

“I told Shiro,” Kolivan hummed against the side of Keith’s throat. “Of your feelings for him, that is.” 

Keith went still for a moment as the words made their way through his ale-heavy mind. Then he stiffened and pulled back, looking alarmed. “Why did you do that?” He hissed in a low voice, casting a panicked look toward the door. “He… you saw what happened last time. Kolivan, you can’t just  _ say  _ things like that to him. He startles easily, like a baby bird—” 

“Perhaps that was true when you first brought him here, but he has grown brave.” Kolivan looked at his husband seriously. “You would still call him a baby bird who startles easily, after seeing him fight in Mercia?”

Keith hesitated, then deflated. “No…” he sighed. “You are right, as usual. But I still don’t see why you would tell him such a thing.”

“Because, my sweet husband,” Kolivan cupped his cheeks. “I love you dearly, but sometimes you are as dull as a wooden stave, especially in matters of the heart. For you cannot see that he feels for you as you feel for him.” 

Keith’s eyes widened and his lips parted in shock, although Kolivan couldn’t be certain if it was from the revelation or the gentle ribbing. “Are… are you sure?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“A blind man could see it,” Kolivan told him. 

Keith looked toward the doorway again, his teeth gnawing his bottom lip in thought. “I… should I go to him? Say something? Invite him to… to…” 

“It had best wait. You drank much this evening.” Kolivan reminded him gently. “If you do something now, you may not remember it, come morning.” 

Keith was quiet for a long moment, then nodded. “You are right. As always.” He leaned up on his toes to press a kiss to Kolivan’s lips, but he swayed and managed to catch just the corner of his jaw. Kolivan steadied him before he could fall, and Keith giggled as he fell against his broad chest. “I think Odin has blessed you with much wisdom, dear husband.” 

“I think you had best get to bed soon.” Kolivan chuckled. 

“Very wise indeed.” Keith yawned widely, then slipped his arms over Kolivan’s shoulders and batted his lashes up at him. “Carry me?” Never mind that the bed was a mere five feet away. 

Kolivan rolled his eyes and scooped up his husband with an arm behind his back and another behind his knees. Keith was a strong warrior with a hearty constitution, but his lithe frame could only hold so much alcohol. Kolivan would have to drink much, much more than he had to get to the state Keith was in. But he didn’t mind taking care of his husband; taking off his boots and combing out his braids, and fetching him a cup of water with ground willow bark to fend off the headache he would surely suffer in the morning. Keith was dozing off before he even finished half of his drink, and was fast asleep by the time Kolivan left to return the cup to the kitchen. After a moment’s thought, he eased open the door to the small room off to the side of the kitchen and found Shiro in a similar state ー sprawled over his bed with one boot off, his mouth open and drooling against his pillow. 

Kolivan shook his head fondly and set the remainder of the willow bark water drink on the table beside Shiro’s bed. He, too, would surely need it in the morning. He also picked up the blanket off of the floor and laid it over him in case he grew cold during the night. Then he retreated back to his own bedroom and slipped into bed beside his already-snoring husband. Their bed was large, he noticed absently. It could easily fit another… 

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

They all indulged in a lie-in the next morning, sleeping off their hangovers and catching up on the rest they had neglected in favor of revelry. Kolivan woke to the feeling of his husband burrowing into his chest and hiding from the morning sunlight streaming in through the cracks in their window shutter. 

“Good morning, love,” Kolivan hummed, brushing a hand through his hair. 

“Mmph.” It seemed that Keith had been reduced to a creature of grunts. Luckily, Kolivan was rather adept at translating the sounds. That one, perhaps, meant something along the lines of:  _ morning it may be, but ‘good’ is debatable. _

“Shall I get you something to drink?” 

“Rmnghm.”  _ Drinking is what got me into this state, so no. _

“Water, my heart,” Kolivan reminded him patiently. “Shall I bring you some water?” 

“...mfph.”  _ Oh. I misunderstood.  _ “Mm.”  _ Perhaps that would be good, yes.  _

“Or something to eat?” Kolivan traced a nail over the exposed skin at the back of Keith’s neck, where his hair had fallen away as it fanned out on the pillow behind him. Even as sleep-heavy as Keith was, the action still elicited a shiver down his back. “I believe we have some honeyed ham left over from the feast, and those sweet blackberries you are so fond of.” 

“Hngrmphrm.”  _ I fear that if I put one morsel of matter into my belly, I shall vomit.  _

“Just a bite? I assure you, you will feel better.” 

“...mmhpm.”  _ Fine, for you. But only because you are so charming, my dear, sweet, strapping husband who takes such good care of me when I have drunk all night like a fool.  _ Okay, perhaps he was embellishing that one a little.

Kolivan kissed his forehead. “I will go prepare breakfast.” 

“Mmmnnnghh…”  _ Nooooo, don’t go, your handsome chest is my shield against the cruel sun…  _ That, he could be pretty certain of, based on the way Keith clung to him. Kolivan chuckled and gently extracted himself from Keith’s clutches, then tossed a blanket over his head in compensation for his absence. Keith let out a satisfied grunt and burrowed deeper into the warm recess where Kolivan had laid.

Shaking his head fondly, Kolivan slipped on his boots to guard his feet from the floorboards not yet warmed by the sun, and made his way out to the kitchen. He brought in firewood and lit the hearth, then set to dividing the leftovers among three plates. While he was working, Shiro emerged from his room, squinting and rubbing his eyes blearily. 

“Now I know why the monks said over-indulging in drink was a sin…” he muttered, massaging his forehead. As a slave, they had given him only watered-down ale. The strong, unwatered ale was saved for the free folk and warriors. Although he was no stranger to the taste after living with them, that night had been the first he had been permitted to  _ really _ drink with them. 

“Build up a tolerance, and it will not be so bad,” Kolivan said. 

Shiro looked at him with a flat expression and wordlessly pointed to the jarl’s bedroom door, where a snore indicated Keith was sleeping off his own hangover. 

Kolivan laughed softly. “Building up a tolerance does not necessarily mean remembering to stay within its limits.” He himself had the slightest of headaches, but it was not so debilitating that he was beyond making a cure for himself. While Shiro sat at the table with his eyes buried in the darkness of his palms, Kolivan fixed a few cups of mead and set one in front of Shiro, along with one of the plates of meats and berries. 

Shiro emerged from the dark haven of his hands just long enough to see the cup of amber liquid set in front of him, then shied away again with a groan. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I must decline. I’ll not be putting anything in my mouth for at least a fortnight, lest it come right back up.” The exaggerated politeness contrasted with his miserable state in a way that made Kolivan chuckle. 

“It is highly watered down,” Kolivan told him, lifting his own cup to his lips. A hint of the tang of drink, mostly overshadowed by the sweetness. “Water drowns out the piercing pain in one’s head after a night of drinking. The honey of mead helps with healing. And the smallest amount of drink the next day can help soothe the recovery further, much like drinking a potion containing the hair of the dog that bit you can cure the effects of its bite.” 

“I do feel as though a dog has bit my head and cleaved it in two with its fangs,” Shiro admitted. Kosmo, lounging under the table, tossed him a look bordering on an offended glare as if he could actually understand the words. Kolivan had long suspected as much, when it came to this particular wolf-hound. 

At long last, Shiro emerged from his hands and reached for the cup. He took a tentative sip, and when he managed to keep it down, took another, then drained the cup. Already looking better, he tucked into the food.

Shiro was halfway through his breakfast and Kolivan was nearly done himself when the bedroom door opened and Keith stumbled out with a woven blanket wrapped about his shoulders and his hair looking like the feathers of a ruffled raven that had just escaped the jaws of a wolf and hadn’t yet had time to preen itself back to order. 

Kolivan chuckled and pushed a stool out from underneath the table with his foot, setting the third plate in front of it. “Afternoon, my love. Sleep well?” 

Keith muttered something unintelligible and probably grousing as he dropped onto the stool and pulled the plate towards himself. After draining his drink and making it through several bites, though, he had perked up enough to speak. “Who brewed that ale? Hunk? Was too strong… he probably let it sit a few days too long.” 

“I think Hunk would disagree,” Kolivan hummed. “And careful how you critique his cooking; his skill with a blade is not limited to the kitchen.” 

Keith snorted. “We’re friends. He wouldn’t challenge me over something so…” he trailed off, looking into the distance with a chunk of bread between his lips as he thought about it. Then he shrugged and finished tearing into the bread with his teeth. “Mm. He might, actually.” He took another swig of watered mead and looked across the table at Shiro. “How did you sleep?” 

Shiro smiled grimly. “Like the dead, after that.” He turned to Kolivan. “How are you so unaffected?” 

Kolivan’s lips quirked up in a fleeting, teasing grin. “I have a great power on my side. Something that defeats the legendary next-day-pain that accompanies drink, before it can even set in.” He wanted to laugh at Shiro’s captivated expression, but held his face in check. “Self-control.” 

Shiro blinked, taking that in, then rolled his eyes and turned back to his breakfast with a smile and shake of his head. Keith growled and threw a slice of carrot at his husband. Kolivan caught it easily and popped it into his mouth.

“Perhaps now is not the time for such a discussion,” he said carefully. “But, in short, what was your impression ー the both of you ー regarding a potential settlement in England?”

Keith propped an elbow up onto the table and shoved his fingers through his hair, glaring darkly down at his food. “Given our less than warm welcome, I would say that the Mercian king is not on the hunt for allies. We would need a large force if we were to try and seize any lands.” 

Kolivan looked to Shiro to confirm. Shiro nodded. “I haven’t much knowledge or experience with war,” he said slowly. “But I agree with Keith. I’m not sure they could be trusted to uphold an alliance.”

Kolivan nodded, unsurprised with the verdict. “Very well. We will discuss the matter more in depth later, and with Krolia.” He finished his drink and rose to his feet. “Well, we have lazed away enough of the morning. When you are finished, there are some repairs we need to do around here.”

Neither looked particularly pleased with that prospect, but perhaps it would teach them to have more restraint at the next feast, Kolivan chuckled as he left to draw up a bucket of water from the well.

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

As Shiro went about his day, Kolivan’s words from the night before continued to haunt him. Surely he couldn’t have truly meant it. It had to have been words of jest, or the sort of promises that fell from men’s lips after too much ale, only to dry up in the light of the next day, never to be spoken of again. Perhaps it was even a fabrication of his own mind after he himself had too many drinks. Shiro might have made a place for himself here, but that was simply too far. He  _ had  _ to be misunderstanding those words, and the glances both of them gave him throughout the day. Perhaps they were afraid he had remembered such words, or were watching him in hopes of seeing some sign that he had forgotten them. Therefore he strove to pretend like nothing was out of the ordinary ー like he didn’t find his eyes drawn to them throughout the day, and in doing so, found their eyes on him.

But he did. And they did. 

He couldn’t help but notice it all: Keith’s eyes watching him with a careful sort of hope. Kolivan tracking his movements as he lifted a bale of straw while feeding the livestock. His own smile that he tried to cover up while he watched Keith plant himself in front of the door and argue one-sidedly with Kosmo when the wolf-hound came back to the house covered in mud. Pulling his hand away quickly when Kolivan’s fingers brushed against his while handing him a tool. Catching Keith’s eyes on him, heavy with a sorrowful loneliness that shouldn’t be there on such a nice summer evening. All of it weighed on Shiro’s heart and he didn’t know what to do about it, how to make it right, because the answer whispering at the back of his mind wasn’t really an answer at all; it couldn’t possibly be true. 

“May Odin grant me strength and may Freyja grant the two of you some sense,” Kolivan sighed, sounding testy. The words snapped Shiro out of his thoughts and he realized the vegetables he was chopping were so finely decimated they were practically a paste. A  _ thunk  _ made him look up and he found Keith picking up the pestel stone where it had fallen to the ground, apparently having been surprised into dropping it while he ground their meal. 

Kolivan had his arms crossed and was looking at them both like they were children in need of scolding. “I have given you ample time, but I am tired of you both dancing around each other like swans engaged in the longest, most elaborate, spectacularly awful mating dance.”

“Kolivan!” Keith hissed, his shoulders rising up to his red-stained ears.

“There is an attraction here, and it must be addressed,” Kolivan ignored the admonishment. “Why are we denying it?”

“No one is denying anything,” Keith bristled, looking very much like an angry cat.

“Hiding it, then.”

“No one is hiding anything either!”

Kolivan snorted. “That much is true. You are doing a downright terrible job of hiding it.”

“I’m sorry.” The words flew to Shiro’s lips, unbidden and without him knowing fully what he was apologizing for. Both of them turned to look at him.

Keith’s eyes softened. “You have nothing to apologize forー” 

“ーsave only for not speaking your mind freely,” Kolivan finished for him, a touch more blunt. 

The accusation (for he couldn’t see it as anything other than an accusation) struck Shiro like a sword and he flinched. “I did not wish to intrude on your marriage. I know that surely you cannot think of me as anything more than a former slave and ー I hope still ー a friend.” 

Kolivan regarded him with a sort of baffled curiosity. “Did you perhaps hit your head?” he asked, with that same mix of stern and concerned that had taken Shiro months to recognize as more concern than stern. “Have you forgotten that Keith kissed you? Or that I told you last night that you are not alone in your desires?”

“Desires that I should not have.” The words unlocked themselves from his chest and rushed out before Shiro could stop them. All he could do was avert his gaze from them. “I should not want either of you, and yet I find myself wanting  _ both  _ of you.”

He heard Keith suck in a sharp breath at the admission. Kolivan was silent. Shiro could not bring himself to look at either of them, instead keeping his gaze on his own hands where they were curled into fists against the table top. Shame burned at his ears, matching the desire that had burned, quietly and unable to be extinguished, in his chest for far too long.

“And we want you,” Kolivan said, his voice gentle in a way that Shiro seldom heard outside of the moments stolen with his husband when they whispered affections to each other in quiet corners or behind the thin walls of their bedroom. It was not a voice he had ever thought would be directed at him. “Both of us, we want you.” 

The words made him pause, his heart skipping a beat in his chest. They wanted him? Both of them? 

Shiro realized that Keith had been silent for quite some time now, and he looked up, his heart thundering like he had one of Thor’s storms trapped in his chest. The other Galran was quiet, watching the both of them with wide eyes and bated breath.

“Keith?” Shiro asked. “You… you have said nothing… do you agree with Kolivan?”

All at once, Keith’s breath left him in a rush and the tension dropped from his shoulders like a taut bowstring loosing an arrow. “Of course,” Keith said. “I… fuck, Shiroー” Keith pushed his hands through his hair, a strange sort of desperation pinching his expression. “I don’t know what to say. My feelings are… too vast, as vast as the ocean. How can I hope to put them into words?”

“It is true,” Kolivan piped up. “He managed to woo my heart with his physical prowess more than his stellar wordsmith skills.”

Keith spared his husband a brief look of minor annoyance at the jibe before turning back to Shiro. “I have been in love with you for a long time. How long ー when acquaintanceship turned to friendship, then to admiration, then to love ー I cannot say. But I knew you were different, that you were special, from the moment we met. Back at the Garrison, before I knew just how intertwined our fates would become, I knew you were special. It was your eyes, and the fire and drive in them. I recognized it as the same sort of fire that burns in Kolivan, and in myself.” He smiled, small and shy yet certain and unwavering. “There is room in our hearth for a flame such as yourself. If you wish to join us, that is.”

“I do,” Shiro said, and only realized once the words left him just what they sounded like ー words spoken in candle-lit churches before white-robed bishops as a man and wife were joined in the eyes of God. Saying them here filled his chest with a thrill that was equal parts exhilaration and terror. “But… I don’t know what that means ー what it would mean, for us… for you two…” 

“It means whatever we wish it to mean,” Kolivan said. “We already live together, dine together, spend our days and nights together in shared work and idle enjoyment in turn… It would only be natural to lie together, and hold and kiss you as the two of us already do.”

Shiro was suddenly all too aware of their particular placement in this small kitchen. Himself, in the corner beside the door; Keith, between them both with the light of the hearth fire casting a glow over him; Kolivan, furthest away but watching him intently. It was not exact, but it was still a strange echo of the first night he had spent here, when he was grieving and angry and confused, even  _ disgusted  _ by their proposition. And yet, this moment was so different, as it was bathed in love and trust and understanding that had grown in the past two years. 

And he wanted it. Oh, God, did he want it. He wanted it so strongly and so deeply that the intensity of his want frightened him. 

Shiro drew in a breath that shook like a bird in flight caught by an unexpectedly strong breeze. 

“I am not meant to want such a thing…” Shiro said softly. He could almost feel Father Iverson admonishing him, see the inked words of God’s teachings on the page before him, hear his vows ringing in his ears… It was wrong, he should not want it, it was a sin, he should not have these sinful thoughts...

Keith’s brow furrowed and his lips pulled down in a small frown. He laid a hand on Shiro’s arm, and the old memories faded and grew quiet. “You are meant to want the things that you want,” he said gently. “There is nothing wrong with wanting, Shiro.”

Shiro smiled, small and tentative. “I… I know. You have taught me that, both of you,” he said, looking between them. “But this sort of want is new to me. I have never felt such a thing myself, and was told all my life it was wrong to… to desire one, let alone two… and men at that.” A strange bubble of hysteria burst in his chest, pushing a breath akin to a laugh out of him. He raked a hand through his hair, feeling it brush his shoulders as it settled ー like a physical manifestation of all the radical changes he had gone through in two years that felt like two days and two decades all at the same time. 

Shiro took another deep breath, and this one was steadier. He looked at the two of them. “I want to be with you, in every way. I want it so badly that it scares me. I want it… but I think I need to go slowly.” 

He was afraid they would be offended, or at least impatient with such a lukewarm answer. But they just smiled, and looked almost relieved. 

“We can wait,” Keith said, squeezing his arm once more before letting go. His eyes were warm as they looked at Shiro. “We can take this as slowly as you need to.” 

A grateful smile tugged at his lips. “Thank you.” Shiro rubbed the back of his neck and glanced between them, suddenly feeling shy. “I apologize; I’m sure that was not the most ideal reaction to your proposal.” 

Kolivan chuckled and lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “My other proposal resulted in Keith ramming his round-shield into my chest. I have learned to expect the unexpected.”

“Things hardly go to plan when you approach them with the sort of bluntness that Kolivan does,” Keith shot the older man a pointed look. 

“A certain amount of bluntness is needed to cut through your bull-headedness,” Kolivan replied smoothly, sounding unbothered. “Now, are we going to finish preparing supper, or will it already be breakfast by the time we gather ourselves?” 

Shiro bit back a laugh as Keith reached into the stone mortar and flicked a bit of half-ground meal powder at Kolivan in retaliation.

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

As the sun set and the evening went on, Keith found himself grateful that the easy air between the three of them remained as it always had. They prepared their evening meal with the sort of synchronized, well-practiced movements that could only come from living comfortably together, and not a bit of it was awkward or forced. He was glad. The last thing he wanted was for things to change between them for the worse. That was probably why he had been silent on this matter for so long; he did not want to lose the friendship he had with Shiro, so much so that he had kept his feelings tightly locked in his chest and had told himself he would wait for Shiro to come to them. He only now realized that Shiro must have been waiting for the same, if not a similar, reason. It seemed his husband’s wisdom was true once again, as was his decision to give them all a little kick.

Dinner was a usual affair, made just a little more fine than normal as they finished off the last leftovers from the feast the night before. It seemed an apt occasion for such treats, given their discussion earlier. Even if the vegetables had been chopped a little too finely under Shiro’s distracted hands and cooked into a slightly mushy paste. Keith was even going to tease him about it until he noticed that Shiro had grown more quiet than usual and seemed, once again, distracted and lost in his own thoughts. 

Keith’s brow furrowed in concern. “Shiro? Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no.” Shiro straightened up and offered him a smile from across the table. “My apologies, I’m fine.” 

Keith rested his elbow on the table and set his chin in his hand, laying his spoon down. “If that is true, then I’m a tröll,” he said bluntly, then gentled his tone. “What’s on your mind? You can confide in us.”

Kolivan nodded his agreement from his place between them at the head of the table. 

Shiro was quiet for a few long moments, and the only sound was the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft rustle of fur and weight as Kosmo stretched and yawned under the table, rolling over to curl up on top of Keith’s feet like an overgrown cat.

At long last, Shiro spoke, though he kept his eyes trained on his plate rather than meet either of their gazes. “We will finish eating, and then wash the dishes and such… and… and then what? What… what will we do, after that?” 

He was nervous, Keith realized. It had been quite some time since he had seen Shiro nervous.

“We place no expectations on you, Shiro,” Kolivan told him. “On this night or any other.”

“As we said before, we will take this as slowly as you wish,” Keith reached across the table and laid a hand over Shiro’s, feeling the sight tremor there stop as he did so. “This is your home. You may sleep where you want. If you would like to join us in our bed ー even just to sleep ー you are welcome. If you would rather sleep in your room, then that is just as acceptable. The choice is yours.”

Shiro’s thumb rubbed absentmindedly at the lip of his wooden plate. Keith could feel the steady pull and contraction of the muscle where his palm was laid over the back of his hand, the motion letting Keith’s fingertips brush against the silver arm-ring that graced his wrist. 

“It is not that I don’t want to…” Shiro said slowly, the words sounding like they were being drawn up from deep inside him. “It is just… difficult.”

Keith nodded. At one level, he did not understand what would be difficult about acting on one’s feelings. But on the other hand, he understood what might become of the mind when one has had lessons pounded into him telling him he could not do something. He gave Shiro’s hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Then we will wait until it is easy.” 

“Even if it is a long time?” Shiro lifted his eyes to cast a shy look at each of them in turn.

“Even if it is a long time. As long as it takes” Keith smiled, and Kolivan hummed in agreement. 

After dinner, they retired as they always had ー Keith and Kolivan to their room, and Shiro to his. Keith pushed off his boots and climbed into bed with a sigh, curling his arms around the wolf-dog who hopped up onto the bed beside him.

“We just have to be patient,” Kolivan murmured, quiet enough so that it wouldn’t carry to the other room. 

“I know.” Keith buried his face in Kosmo’s soft fur. “It’s just… hard.” He had a terrible feeling that someone ー those stiff, uptight Christian priests, no doubt ー had said things to Shiro that were still hurting him. He could see it in his eyes, in the tremor of his hand, his hesitation to touch them or join them. It made it all the more difficult to resist the urge Keith had to hold him and comfort him.

Kolivan finished combing out his hair at the dresser and snapped his fingers twice, pointing at the floor. Kosmo rolled out of Keith’s arms with a displeased grunt and hopped down off the bed, going to curl up in his corner beside the door. Keith turned over as Kolivan got into bed on his other side, hugging his husband’s broad torso in place of his hound ー holding each other as tightly as they wished to hold the one who was not here with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry it’s been a whole month since I updated, and I’m sorry in advance that I’m not 100% sure if I can get a chapter ready during the next month. Summer is always a busy time at work for me, and I’m juggling this story + a month-long event for August (so I’ll be posting _something_ , I just don’t know if it’ll be this story… or even anything VLD-related, sorry...) I think I have the rest of the plot pinned down, though, and I have _parts_ of the next three chapters (final three chapters? We’ll see) written/drafted, it’s just a matter of filling in the gaps and tying off loose ends during my limited time for writing. But this was the last complete chapter I had, so updates may be even more slow, and I’m sorry in advance. I would also like to get back to the tattoo parlor AU after I finish this, because it’s been far too long since I worked on that one.


	13. Hold My Breath And Dive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really, really sorry this took so long for me to get out. I got distracted with a new fandom, plus have been busy at work, plus I was looking into post-grad certification programs, plus (kinda TMI) an unexpected side-effect of started testosterone has been that my sex-repulsion has skyrocketted and it made reading and writing smut super hard (weird because that’s the opposite of what other people report?). The smut probably isn’t very good and I worry it’s very, idk, meandering? (It’s also a little awkward at times because it’s all from Shiro’s POV and this man does NOT know what he’s doing…) But, after this there’s just a little more plot to tie up and I mostly know where it’s going, so that should be easier to write! (...hopefully)
> 
> Songs that inspired this chapter include “Surrender” by Eivør Pálsdóttir and “Bedroom Hymns” by Florence + the Machine
> 
> ~~*crosses self* Pretty sure a fair amount of the narration and Shiro's thoughts count as blasphemy, whoops~~

Days passed, and in some ways, little changed. They all woke in the mornings, did their chores, went about their days both together and apart, came together for meals, and at night, Shiro bid the other two goodnight and retired to his room while they did the same. There was no great upheaval that turned life as he knew it upside down, even after such a world-altering revelation. No mysterious forces pushed them together or apart, nor did the ground split and swallow Shiro whole with the Devil dragging him off to Hell. Birds chirped and flitted from tree to tree, ships were hauled out of the water for repairs, and the first crop of the harvest ripened. To an outside eye, everything remained much the same as it always had. But Shiro could not help but notice the small things that had changed, ever so slightly; the shy smiles they offered him when hands brushed as they worked, the softness in their voices and eyes when they bid him goodnight, the hand Kolivan rested on his shoulder while pointing out the weak spot in the fence where they would be going to make repairs, the way Keith would sit closer to him beside the fire when the evenings began to chill with the first bite of autumn. They respected his wish to take things slow and did not press him, but they were noticeably more free with their affection, both in smiles and small touches. More than that, they gave him his space when he needed it; taking notice of when he tensed at their touch and withdrawing it with a small dip of the head in apology, reassuring smiles when he hesitantly reached out to reciprocate their friendly hugs and shoulder touches, and always being quick to include him when he found himself watching them uncertainly and feeling like a stranger intruding on their moment together. They made him feel included, and like he belonged ー not just in their home as he had been, but  _ with  _ them. The lines that had been drawn in the sand blurred, as if scattered by a breeze blowing over the beach, and Shiro found himself more and more wanting to cross the place where they had been. He just didn’t know how.

One night, when nearly all the chores were finished and Shiro and Keith were sitting by the fire, waiting for Kolivan to finish up with the horses in the barn, Shiro decided to ask.

“When you and Kolivan… began to be intimate with each other,” Shiro felt his ears pink as he spoke. “What… how did it happen? What did you do?” 

Keith let out a chuckle. “Like everything else we do, it happened suddenly. And yet, at the same time, it was a long, slow process. Like a pot simmering for a long, long while before suddenly boiling over.” He propped his leg up and rested his arm on his knee. “We were friends for a long time. Practically grew up together. He’s a bit older, you know, so I always looked up to him. He taught me how to fight. We sparred every chance we got, going for hours until we were sweating and panting. I could never beat him, though. Until one day, by sheer luck, I knocked him on his back and pinned him. Told him to yield, and he just stared up at me like I was the moon in the sky. I thought he might have finally lost it, or had hit his head a little too hard in the fall… Then he surged up and kissed me, and I thought  _ I  _ must have hit my head, for that was something I had only seen in my dreams.”

A low rumble of laughter echoed behind them, and they realized Kolivan had returned and was watching them, his arms crossed casually and his hip leaning against the table. “You are forgetting the part where I pined after you like a fool for years yet was too fearful to act until then,” he smiled.

“You? Fearful?” Shiro couldn’t imagine it. He had never once seen Kolivan look remotely afraid of anything. 

“There is not much I have feared in my life. Perhaps only three things,” Kolivan said. “One was that Keith did not feel the same way about me as I did him. The other is that I will lose the ones I love most.” He smiled a bit sadly, running his fingers through Keith’s hair as Keith leaned into the touch like a cat.

“And the third?” Shiro asked, curious.

Kolivan snorted quietly. “Snakes,” he said simply, then turned away to blow out the lantern and lock the door for the night.

Shiro found himself spellbound by the expression on Keith’s face as he watched him walk away. The love there was so palpable and real, it was as if he could pick it up and feel it like a physical object. 

“And you have been together since that day?” Shiro asked. 

“Mm, in a way,” Keith said, turning back to the fire. “Perhaps in heart, and in scarce, stolen moments. A love between two men was not exactly smiled upon, in those days. In some parts of Galra, that remains the case.”

“We took a lot of hunting trips,” Kolivan added. “The mountains and the gods did not care if we shared the same tent, or crowded together for warmth in the cold nights.”

Keith eyed Shiro, his lips quirking up in a flash of a knowing smile. “Though we did lie together, we did not have penetrative sex for several years, if that is what you are worried about.”

Red heat bloomed over Shiro’s cheeks and ears like wildfire. “I wasn’tー”

“You were,” Keith said, matter-of-fact and without judgement. He patted Shiro’s knee. “So you can rest easy, knowing we won’t seduce you off to our bed immediately after our first kiss.” 

“Obviously, or the night after the battle in Mercia would have gone quite differently,” Shiro muttered, trying to will his blush away.

Keith chuckled. “That was hardly a kiss. Not a proper one, at least. Too quick, too closely tied to formality…” He shook his head with a smile. “When you are ready to feel a real kiss, you need only let us know. You know that, right?” 

He had been wondering just that. Shiro kept his eyes on the flames flickering in the hearth, but his thoughts were elsewhere. “You said before that ‘three people can’,” he said slowly. “I have thought about it, but I am having great difficulty imagining how that might work.” 

Keith barked out a laugh, and Shiro heard a sound behind them that he thought was Kolivan snorting quietly. “Well, kissing is more of a one-on-one activity,” Keith explained, his voice light with mirth. 

“First one, then the other,” Kolivan clarified. 

Shiro felt himself blush, both from the topic and his misstep. He rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled to mask his embarrassment. “Are you sure you would even  _ want  _ me, now that I have made my inexperience so painfully clear?” 

“Shiro, we taught you of our ways and our gods, we taught you how to weave, to hunt, to fight,” Keith leaned closer, his eyes sparkling in the firelight. “Why would you think we would shy from the chance to teach you to love, too?”

“We are eager for it, in fact,” Kolivan agreed, sitting on Shiro’s other side. He was close ー close enough to feel the heat of his skin through their clothes where his thigh and his side pressed against Shiro’s. As close as Keith was on his other side. 

Shiro bit his lip, and noticed how Keith’s eyes fixed on the movement, hungry. His heart was pounding once more, but this time in anticipation. 

“I think I’m ready,” Shiro said quietly. He looked from Kolivan, with his soft, warm smile, to Keith, with his eyes bright with eager fire. He chuckled awkwardly. “Well, truthfully, I don’t know if I can ever be ‘ready’ ー no more so than I can be ready to dive from a cliff into the sea below. But I want to jump, anyway.” 

Keith shifted, his hands coming up, then he aborted the movement and pressed his hands to his knees again. “Can I kiss you?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Shiro’s heart skipped a beat in his chest. “Please,” he replied, just as quiet. 

Keith’s eyes glittered like stars in the night sky as he grinned, leaning in. His hands came up to cradle his cheeks, thumbs stroking the trimmed hair of his beard, and for a moment, Shiro couldn’t help but remember him doing the same after their brief kiss on the hill overlooking the battlefield. The desperate sort of fervor was absent, now, replaced with a different sort of heat that glowed like embers just before they were fanned into flames. The moment lasted only a few heartbeats, then Keith leaned in and kissed him. Shiro had the good sense (and lack of surprise) to know to close his eyes this time. It started as just a press of their lips together, much like the other one, but this was so much softer and more tender. Then Keith’s lips moved against his, retreating until they were just brushing before coming back once more, and Shiro felt the threads of worry creep up his spine as he realized he didn’t know what to do.

A large, warm hand slid up his back, untangling those thoughts as easily as one might untangle braids. “Do not think so much. Let your heart follow where he guides you,” Kolivan’s voice murmured behind him. 

Shiro let his eyes close once more and tried, mimicking the movement of Keith’s lips on his. Unsure what to do with his hands, he brought one up to… to… he didn’t quite have a plan, actually, and he sort of floundered the movement before his hand ended up on what felt like the back of Keith’s neck. A breath of air whispered over his skin, and he thought it might be a laugh until he heard the quiet sound that followed; a whimper, or a whine, he wasn’t sure, but something in him recognized it as a plea for more. He was happy to oblige, and he curled his hand around the back of Keith’s neck, fingers weaving into the soft hair at his nape. Keith pressed closer, kissing him harder, then drew back with a breathy sigh. 

“You take to kissing like a fish to water,” Keith told him, fingers tracing aimless patterns over his cheeks, his jaw, the shell of his ear. 

Shiro laughed quietly, wondering absently how he could be a fish when he was dizzy from the lack of air. The heated look Keith was giving him didn’t help, stealing his breath even after they parted. 

A warm, work-roughened hand at his chin prompted him to turn, and he let himself be led like he was on a string. 

Kolivan smiled down at him, his golden-hazel eyes glowing like embers, as his thumb stroked over Shiro’s cheek. “May I?”

“Yes,” Shiro breathed, the word coming out quiet between his fluttering heart and his spinning head. He managed to lean in when Kolivan did, meeting him halfway, and their noses might have bumped had Kolivan not tilted their heads with a guiding thumb pressed into Shiro’s chin. He kissed differently than Keith; a little slower, more measured. He was taller, too, so Shiro had to tip his face up slightly. It was easy to follow, and Shiro let himself relax and be guided. Then Kolivan coaxed his lips apart, and  _ oh, _ that was different. He did not quite know what to do with himself ー his hands, his lips, and now his  _ tongue  _ ー but Kolivan soothed his worries with a low rumble of approval and a smile pressed against his lips. 

Shiro was even more breathless by the time Kolivan pulled back. He had no clue how much time had passed; he probably would have continued until he passed out, had Kolivan not stopped him with a thumb brushing over his lips. Lips that were wet, and felt almost as though they were buzzing. His head felt light and floaty, like a cloud that was pushed along by a gentle breeze on a clear, sunny day. 

He felt a warm weight rest on his shoulder and envelop his waist, and half-turned to find Keith with his arms wrapped around him, chin propped in the crook of his shoulder and neck. The fire in the hearth had burned low, leaving the room darker than before, but the heat in those night-sky eyes had not dimmed in the slightest. 

“As we told you before,” Kolivan murmured, drawing his attention back to the jarl. “We place no expectations on you. If you wish to stop here for tonight, we will.” 

Shiro’s heart beat harder in his chest, so hard that he wondered if Keith could feel it through his back. “And if I do not wish to stop?” He asked, the words quiet in the night air. 

He saw Kolivan’s smile soften the lines of his face, and felt Keith’s smile against his throat. 

“Then we will take you to bed,” Kolivan said. “And let our bodies intertwine as our hearts already have.” 

“I am still nervous,” Shiro admitted, feeling he should be honest with them. “And I do not have the faintest idea what to do, even less than here.”

“That is alright,” Kolivan leaned down to press a simple, short kiss to his lips ー practically chaste compared to what he had just done. 

“You could watch us, first,” Keith suggested. “If it would put your mind at ease to see it, before you try for yourself.” 

Shiro barely heard Kolivan’s hum of agreement, his own thoughts too busy conjuring up images of the two of them in ecstasy. He could not say he had never imagined it ー that the memory of his first night here did not come back to him, especially on the nights when he could hear them through the thin walls of the house. He had always tried to block them out, whispering prayers to himself to drown out the sounds and banish the sinful thoughts away. But still, they had always come back. And he could not deny that he was eager to see if the real sight was anything like his imagination. 

Shiro swallowed hard and nodded. 

Keith grinned and his lithe fingers trailed down Shiro’s arm until they could weave between his own. He pulled Shiro up to his feet with a strong grip, and Shiro nearly fell on him, dizzy with the motion. The only thing that stopped him from toppling them both back to the ground was the firm hand at his waist as Kolivan steadied him. Keith tugged on Shiro’s hand, leading him to the bedroom, and Kolivan followed behind. It was not the first time he had been in here (he had cleaned it as a servant, and there had been that fateful first night), but stepping over the low, wooden lip of the threshold felt like he was stepping into new territory.

Kosmo, familiar with the nightly routine, tried to follow them into the bedroom, but was stopped and shooed out by Kolivan, who paused to lock the door. While he did so, Keith pulled Shiro over towards the bed, drawing him in for another heated kiss ー this time, stealing every thought from Shiro’s mind with his tongue, as Kolivan had. 

“You’ve thought about it, haven’t you?” Keith asked him, lips curved up in a sly smile. “Us, and how you might fit together with us. How did you imagine it?” 

If his face and ears hadn’t been flushed before, they certainly were now. He felt the color creep down his neck, below the collar of his shirt. 

“Fleetingly,” he admitted. “Sounds, and… sensations. I never dared to imagine more. I still don’t quite know the, ah, mechanics of it.” 

He was afraid they might laugh at such obvious inexperience, but his wording only garnered a brief twitch of amusement in Keith’s smile as he slid his arms around the back of Shiro’s neck. “Did you ever touch yourself? On those nights with only your thoughts, or perhaps with the sounds from our bedroom?”

Shiro felt his ears burn as he shook his head. “No. I… I have never…”

Keith bit his lip and looked up at him, the heat in his eyes not just from the flickering candle light. He rose up onto his toes to capture his lips once more, hands sliding over his shoulders and down his chest, leaving trails of fire in their wake. “A beautiful flower, ready to be plucked and added to our bouquet,” he murmured against Shiro’s lips as he pulled back. His clever fingers skimmed lower, tracing the embroidery around the collar of his tunic and letting the inside of his wrist brush over Shiro’s chest in a way that made him nearly jump at the shock of pleasure spiking through him. Shiro didn’t know about a ‘flower’, but he did feel like the strings of a lute tightened to perfection; they could pluck a tune out of him with only a touch, if they wanted.

Large, strong hands settled on Shiro’s waist as Kolivan came up behind him, a solid wall at his back. “You are scheming something,” he said to Keith over Shiro’s shoulder. “I can see it in your eyes.” 

Shiro had thus far been quite distracted with Keith’s hands, but now he lifted his gaze to Keith’s face and saw that Kolivan was indeed correct; Keith’s eyes were dark and heady with desire, yet sparkled in that familiar way that belied the gears turning in his mind. 

Keith tapped his finger against Shiro’s chest thoughtfully. “I want you in me.” He lifted his gaze to look over Shiro’s shoulder, at Kolivan. “Both of you. Together.” 

A startled, disbelieving laugh slipped out of Shiro. “At the same time? Surely that is impossible…” 

But Keith didn’t laugh, nor did Kolivan. Keith’s lips curved into a sly smirk and determination hardened in his eyes like shards of amethyst. “‘Impossible’ means nothing to me,” he said. 

And Shiro, unquestioningly, believed him.

Keith took his hand off Shiro’s chest, leaving his skin feeling cold and already missing his warmth. He crossed the room to the dresser and started searching the drawers for… something. Shiro’s attention was once again distracted by Kolivan wrapping his arms around his waist and brushing his hair to the side to trail his lips down his throat. 

“Which do you want?” Kolivan asked, the words vibrating against his skin like thunder. 

There were very few thoughts in Shiro’s head besides a rising sense of  _ want _ , but he must have managed some sort of questioning sound, because Kolivan chuckled. “Very well. You may take the front, as it is your first time.” 

That did not exactly clear up Shiro’s confusion, nor did he understand why Keith returned with a small clay jar, which he set on the bedside table beside the flickering candle. Turning back to Shiro with a glint in his eyes like a cat that had spotted a particularly fat mouse and was about to pounce on it, Keith hooked his fingers into Shiro’s belt and tugged, leading him as he walked backward towards the bed until he could climb onto it. Keith sat up on his knees on the bed, putting himself level with Shiro as he stood, and kissed him again as his nimble fingers untied the leather belt that kept Shiro’s tunic cinched at the waist. 

“I want to taste you,” Keith murmured against his lips, and Shiro delighted at the thought of kissing him some more. But then Keith’s lips left his as he rucked up Shiro’s tunic, pressing kisses in a line down his navel as his nimble fingers delved into Shiro’s trousers and wrapped aroundー

“ _ Oh! _ ” Shiro gasped and staggered, his knees nearly giving out as his mind went white. He shivered and was powerless to stop the whimper escaping him when Keith pulled his length out of his trousers, the chilly air contrasting sharply with the heat of Keith’s hand wrapped around him. Keith moved his hand along the length, giving him a few strokes that quickly brought him to a hardness that surpassed the times he had accidentally woken up in such a state when he was coming into manhood. Heat throbbed between his hips with every pass of that hand, and it was all so overwhelming that his knees shook and his hand shot out to steady himself on the nearest available thing ー which happened to be Keith’s head. 

Keith barely budged with the additional pressure, and Shiro quickly removed his hand (surely that couldn’t be polite). Keith looked up with a knowing smirk, and  _ oh _ , Shiro was positive he was looking into the eyes of Sin itself: dark as Lucifer’s wings, bright like sparks of Hellfire, all seven sins dancing like stars in his eyes… Was this how Eve had felt, looking into the hypnotizing gaze of the Serpent who offered her the fruit of knowledge? His whole body thrummed with a desire he had never before felt, a desire that bordered on  _ need  _ to know the depths of the kind of Love that Keith and Kolivan had promised him. 

Suddenly there was heat at his back, and strong fingers taking the hem of his tunic and guiding it up and over his head. “Be gentle with him,” Kolivan cautioned, his voice a low rumble warmed by amusement. After tossing Shiro’s tunic onto the chair in the corner (where his own already lay, leaving his muscular chest and arms bare), he reached around Shiro to tuck a lock of hair behind Keith’s ear. “You’ll make him finish too quickly if you aren’t careful.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Keith shot back playfully. Which was great, because Shiro didn’t have a clue what he was doing. What little inklings he had were born of desire and tinged with disbelief, because surely Keith didn’t mean… 

Apparently, he did, Shiro might have thought, if he had any ability to think left when Keith ducked his head and licked a hot, wet stripe up his length. As it was, words were a thing Shiro was no longer capable of, and he instead let out a wordless cry. Thank the gods Kolivan was behind him, solid and strong, because with the way Shiro’s knees trembled he was quite certain he might have collapsed into a puddle of lust and pleasure on the floor without those hands to catch him about the hips and hold him steady against his wall of a chest. Heat wrapped around the head of his length and slipped down, hotter and wetter than the hand before, and Shiro willed his eyes away from the ceiling (goodness, when had his head rolled back into such an image of debauchery?) and he looked down to behold a sight that was beyond anything Heaven or Hell could conjure. Not even the shaft in his mouth could hide the smirk of pride tugging at Keith’s lips as he bobbed up and down slowly, almost leisurely, his tongue swirling around the length and his hands engulfing what his mouth couldn’t. Every pass pulled a gasp or a whimper out of Shiro’s chest. He didn’t know what to do with himself; he didn’t know what to do with his hands, and he did not really have the mental capacity at the moment to think about it.

“You can touch him,” Kolivan said, and Shiro could feel the words rumble in his chest where they were pressed together. “He dislikes being held down, but he enjoys the feeling of a hand in his hair.”

Biting his lip, Shiro reached one shaking hand down, hovering uncertainly over the top of Keith’s head. Keith obligingly held still ー if one could call suckling at the head of his cock like he was sucking the rich marrow out of a roasted bone, “holding still” ー while Shiro figured out what to do with himself and hesitantly set his palm on the crown of Keith’s head. It felt… well, not  _ wrong _ , just not quite correct (embarrassingly, it looked a bit like he was petting a hound). His suspicion was affirmed when Kolivan chuckled into the side of his throat.

“Like this,” Kolivan murmured, bringing his own hand up to Shiro’s hair to thread through the locks. His fingers were roughened from years of hard work, yet were incredibly gentle. They left trails of heat simmering in their wake along his scalp, a heat that washed from his head down his chest and pooled in the pit of his stomach like he had been doused in warm water, and  _ oh,  _ oh Lord, he could feel his cock twitch of its own accord in Keith’s mouth like it was possessed… or given a life of its own. 

Shiro adjusted his hold on Keith’s hair, mimicking the movement clumsily. He must have done well enough, though, because Keith let out an appreciative little sigh that ghosted over the head of his cock before he slid down the length of it once more, bringing Shiro’s hand with him. Shiro wanted  _ so badly  _ to never, ever take his eyes off Keith, but despite that, his eyes rolled skyward as his vision swam. His grip tightened a little in Keith’s hair, as if he could use the strands to anchor himself in the sea of sensations threatening to drown him. 

Kolivan hummed appreciatively as he trailed his fingers up and down Shiro’s biceps. Shiro had never really appreciated Kolivan’s height and mass until now, when the taller man could rest his cheek against the side of Shiro’s head as he looked over his shoulder, and could easily envelope him completely if he wanted to. But he seemed content to watch Keith take Shiro apart with his mouth. 

“Give him a little tug,” Kolivan told him. “I think you’ll like what happens.”

Hesitantly, Shiro tightened his grip just marginally on Keith’s locks, which elicited a hitched breath from the man in front of him. He gently pulled at the strands ー not enough to hurt, nor pull him off his cock, just enough to feel it. At once, he was rewarded with a sensation unlike anything he had experienced as Keith moaned around him. The vibrations coursed through Shiro like the plucked strings of a harp, singing in his blood and drawing a broken cry of a song out of him like a most unholy prayer. Shiro shuddered under the onslaught of pleasure, especially when Keith sank down to take him all the way down his throat, his ears turning the most delicious shade of red under the inky tresses still caught in Shiro’s grip. 

After a few minutes (but what was time, when they were so consumed by each other?), Keith pulled off Shiro with a gasp, leaving Shiro to shiver as the chilly air hit his wet, heated skin. His face was flushed and his eyes fell shut as he reached between his legs. 

“Kolivan…” Keith said, more a plea than a name, and Kolivan let out a hum of agreement, as if an entire conversation passed between those two sounds. 

Kolivan left his place behind Shiro, his fingers trailing along his back in one last lingering touch as he made his way around the bed. Keith stood up on his knees and quickly undid the belt around his waist, then stripped off his wine-red tunic like the fabric was burning him. As Kolivan stepped out of his trousers and Keith pushed his own down his legs, it became quite clear to Shiro what they were doing and he quickly followed suit, nearly tripping over his boots and trousers in his haste to step out of them. He spared little thought on feeling embarrassed at such nudity, not when his curiosity and hunger was so prevalently gnawing at him. A glance between Kolivan’s legs revealed his manhood to be just as huge as the rest of him, and Shiro surprised himself by wondering what it might be like to taste it as Keith had just done to him. Keith was much more slender, with a waist that Shiro suspected could be entirely encircled by the span of Kolivan’s hands, but he was by no means delicate-looking. Every line of his body was carved of hard muscle that spoke to his years farming and fighting. The only point of exception was his chest, with its small, pert breasts that looked so soft in the flickering candle-light.

When the three of them were bare aside from their silver arm-rings, Keith pulled Shiro onto the bed with an eager strength befitting the young warrior. He fell back onto the pillows, Shiro landing ungracefully somewhat on top of him and somewhat beside him; hands braced on either side of Keith’s head, one knee dangerously close to the crux of his thighs, hovering half-over him a bit uncertainty. Keith soothed his worries by drawing him into a kiss while he widened the space between his legs as Kolivan settled between them. Shiro was growing quite fond of this kissing, and shifted to balance with one forearm resting on the bed while his other hand cupped Keith’s cheek. 

“Touch me,” Keith whispered against Shiro’s lips. 

“Am I not?” Shiro asked, his thumb stroking the soft, thin hairs that grew along Keith’s cheek.

Keith let out a huff of soft laughter, and Kolivan chuckled lowly nearby. Keith took his hand and moved it lower, trailing Shiro’s fingers down his throat, over the sharp cut of his collarbone, down along the valley at the center of his chest… “I cannot tell if you are teasing,” Keith murmured, a sly glint in his eye as he made Shiro’s hand cup the soft, supple skin of his left breast. “Or if you are just that innocent.” 

It was so, so soft, and warm, and fit so perfectly in the palm of his hand… “Th… the latter, unfortunately,” Shiro admitted, not even really knowing what he was saying. 

“I don’t believe you’re as innocent as you make yourself out to be,” Keith smirked. And perhaps he was right, because all it took was a little nudge of pressure and Shiro moved his thumb, letting it sweep over the dark, hard nipple that was practically begging to be toyed with. Keith let out a satisfied moan and tipped his head back, which only encouraged Shiro to do it again. He admired the way Keith’s back arched like a bow. The action didn’t just look tantalizing, he realized; it allowed him to press further into Shiro’s touch and ー as Shiro discovered when he managed to tear his gaze away from his chest ー also let him grind down on the hand Kolivan had working between his legs. 

Shiro felt his face heat with a blush, which didn’t escape the notice of his two lovers. With a smirk on his lips and a firm hand pressing on Shiro’s shoulder, Keith tugged him down to lie beside him, propped up on the pillows and furs at the head of the bed. A shiver (more pleasant than not) ran down Shiro’s spine as his aching cock brushed against Keith’s side.

“Watch,” Kolivan commanded in a low rumble, as if Shiro wasn’t already held captive by the sight. Keith let out a soft, breathy moan as Kolivan stroked thick fingers along the seam of his legs, and Shiro didn’t know what to think when those fingers came up covered in something slick and shiny. 

“Preparation is required before penetration,” Kolivan explained for Shiro’s benefit. “Otherwise, it will be painful, and then the person will pout and complain the next day and try to get out of their chores.” His tone turned teasing at the end and he playfully tweaked the small knob of pink flesh hidden amongst Keith’s curls.

Keith gasped at the action. “That was  _ one time _ …” he muttered. “You were gone for weeks; I’ll not apologize for being eager to see youー  _ oh _ !” He threw back his head with a shout as Kolivan pinched him again. 

“There are some, like Keith, who can make themselves wet enough to ease this passage, given enough stimulation,” Kolivan went on as if Keith hadn’t interrupted. His eyes flicked up to meet Shiro’s, noting the intense blush that had spread down to his chest. “You can also use your mouth. He is rather fond of that.”

Shiro didn’t know what to focus on ー Kolivan’s expert fingers parting surprisingly delicate folds and gathering up more of that clear slickness, or his astonishing words. “M-mouth?”

A spark like fire in his amber eyes was all the warning Kolivan gave before he pushed Keith’s thighs apart and ducked down to lick a wide stripe over the seam between his legs, eliciting a moan from Keith that rose in pitch as he finished it by closing his lips around that apparently-sensitive bit at the top and sucking hard. Keith reached up and blindly tangled his fingers in Shiro’s hair as if to anchor himself. And Shiro, poor Shiro, nearly came on the spot from the sight and sounds alone.

Kolivan straightened up and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth as if he had just done nothing more than taken a leisurely sip of mead. “However, most men will need a little help, as will Keith in this particular endeavor. Hand me that oil on the table, would you?” 

Shiro shook himself out of his trance and looked to the bedside table. The only things sitting on the table were the candle, a seax knife that was always there for protection from intruders, and the clay jar Keith had brought earlier. By process of elimination, he had to assume it was the jar that held the oil. He picked it up and passed it to Kolivan, shivering a little when their fingers brushed and he felt the sticky slickness for himself. 

Kolivan dipped his fingers in the oil and went back to touching Keith, parting his folds and exposing a rosy entrance that glistened like a flower coated in early morning dewdrops glittering in the sunrise. 

“Come here, Shiro,” Kolivan told him. “Watch, so you can learn how to please him.” 

Keith shifted his legs, spreading them wider to accommodate them both as Shiro knelt beside Kolivan. He felt hard enough to burst, but tried to listen intently (a task which was made slightly difficult by the sounds Keith was making above them).

“Take care not to rush the process or use too much force,” Kolivan instructed, absurdly calm given the subject of his lesson. “A well-tuned lyre will sing beautifully with even a brush of a finger. See how he opens up with only a hint of pressure? Dip in, and if you meet resistance, retreat. Pet his cock ー gently at first, for it is as sensitive as your own, though he quite likes to build up to more friction.”

“F-fuck,” Keith gasped, canting his hips up. “Yes…” 

Kolivan pinned his hips down with one strong hand, which for some reason made the embers burn hotter in the pit of Shiro’s stomach (a sentiment he was apparently not alone in, based on Keith’s bitten-back moan in reaction). 

“The occasions when you can push straight in with your cock are few, and frankly, it is not worth souring the experience with a mistake,” Kolivan went on. “So always start with one finger, adding a second only when he has adjusted. Thrust slowly, and stretch like this. If necessary, add a third.” 

“Necessary?” Shiro wondered what would necessitate that. Three fingers was… quite a lot. More than looked like would fit. 

Kolivan met his eyes, then dropped his gaze to his own lap, where his cock was standing proud against his belly… ah. Yes, that made sense. Shiro pointedly ignored the amused snort from Keith at the blush that stained his ears yet again. 

Kolivan drew his fingers out with a wet, obscene sound while Keith’s thighs trembled. “Ordinarily, that is enough.” His lip curled into a smirk. “But not for tonight, when he is hungry for us both.” He tipped more oil onto his fingers and reached down again, circling around… 

Oh Heaven help his soul. 

“You want to commit  _ sodomy _ ?” Shiro asked in a whisper strangled by disbelief. 

The other two stopped at the unfamiliar  _ Englisc _ , and even for as long as he had lived with them and spoken their tongue, he suddenly felt like he was back in the first few weeks with them, trying to navigate such different cultures. 

Keith frowned. “I do not know that word, but I can tell from your tone that it is something reprehensible. So no, we are not doing… whatever that word was. This is just another way of having sex.” 

“It is nothing shameful,” Kolivan said, then paused thoughtfully. “Though, perhaps it is wise not to speak of it in public, for not all in Galra agree.”

“It is a grievous sin,” Shiro said, and tried to explain despite the exasperated look that came over their faces. “The entire cities of Sodom and Gomorrah were smited ー destroyed ー as punishment for the sins of the people, who engaged in vices and indulgences, most famously the lewd and unnatural sexual intercourse between men, penetrating places which have no ability to produce a childー”

“Shiro,” Keith cut him off, gesturing between them. “We are three men, having sex, with no intention to have children. That is what this has been, from the beginning. Why are you surprised only now?”

“It… suddenly became very real,” Shiro admitted. “I suppose… I suppose I didn’t think so much about how it would be done.”

“It is not a thing that requires thinking,” Kolivan pointed out. “You simply do what feels right. What is unnatural about that?”

Quite a bit, depending on whom was asked, Shiro thought privately. But he remembered those words Keith had said to him ー a few years ago, yet it felt like a different lifetime ー in the kitchen of this very house: “ _ sex is an activity  _ ー _ it feels good, that is all. To prohibit engaging in the earthly pleasures given to us by the gods would be wasteful of their gifts. If we were not meant to enjoy them, then why would they bring so much pleasure? _ ” The words had been jarring at the time, and he had even found them blasphemous. But over time, he could see the truth to them; he had gone from believing that one way of thinking was right and the other was wrong, to wondering if perhaps neither was right, to seeing that both ways of thinking held merit. When first faced with this changing perspective and realizing that the ways he had been taught were not the only ways, he had felt despair, felt abandoned and alone in wondering what was real and true. Now, though, being able to see how many ways of thinking there were in the world… it brought him comfort, and made him feel free. Like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, allowing him to drift high into the sky like a leaf carried on the wind… though such freedom itself was terrifying in its own right. 

“I suppose you are right…” Shiro said slowly. 

Keith studied him carefully. “You need not partake, if it makes you uncomfortable.” He reached down between his legs, fingers brushing rosy folds before drifting even lower. “I can take you here, where you say is ‘natural’, and Kolivan here, as he has done before without being smited by any gods.” 

Shiro’s lips twisted a little at the teasing, but was unable to really find much humor as he realized another problem. “I am afraid that may be worse, actually.” 

Keith just arched an eyebrow at him, wordlessly bidding him to explain. 

Shiro let out a tense sigh through his nose as he considered how to phrase it. “I took a vow ー an oath ー to never experience a woman’s embrace. Andー” he went on quickly, as Keith’s expression turned furious. “Though you are not a woman, and I see you unequivocally as a man, it’s… well, it is a matter of semantics.”

“Regarding what is a woman?” Keith asked, the words falling sharp and cold as stones.

Shiro shook his head; he was past that. “Regarding the word ‘embrace’. You see, in Latin there is a connotation of, well,” he let his gaze drop to Keith’s lap pointedly before meeting his eyes again. “ _ That _ sort of… embrace. And the part which is doing the… embracing, if you will.” Heaven help him, trying to explain euphemisms across three languages.  __

Keith looked caught between bemused and incredulous, while Kolivan just looked baffled.

“The arms?” Kolivan asked.

“He means a cunt,” Keith said bluntly. He sighed, blowing an errant lock of hair out of his face. “Well, then, what do you want to do? We won’t continue if you are uneasy. Shall we stop?”

“Noー” Shiro said quickly. He did not want to stop. Not his heart, nor his body. He wanted relief, and he wanted it with the two men he loved. But these were hard shackles to shake free.

Shiro thought long and hard (as long as he dared, and as hard as he was able in the moment). He tried to keep his thinking limited to his head, but his body and his heart had some very persuasive arguments of their own. He loved these two men, and he  _ wanted  _ to be with them. He wanted that so badly he could physically  _ feel _ the want ー not even just between his hips, but an ache deep in his chest like a hole carved out in the shape of them. And what were his vows, anyway? Words spoken in a long-dead language in a land he no longer called home? Promises to a God he no longer knew to be the One and Only, but perhaps one of many? 

Shiro cast his gaze down, and in doing so he caught sight of the silver arm-ring around his wrist. He was not prepared to untangle his intricately complex and ever-changing theological views at this moment, while he was naked and aching for relief with two men anxiously awaiting his answer. They might not understand his reasons. But they could understand the weight of an oath. 

“I took an oath,” Shiro said slowly. “I am not ready to consider whether or not this sort of intercourse would constitute breaking that oath. But while we are taught not to do the other sort of intercourse… I took no oath regarding that.”

Keith studied him. “So you want to take the back?”

Shiro flushed at the terribly blunt and borderline crude way of putting it (though he had to admit it was clearer than dancing around the subject). “...Yes.” 

“You’re sure?” Kolivan checked. “We will not lie with you if you have doubts.” 

“I have no doubts. I am sure of my desire for you both,” Shiro blushed as he admitted it aloud. “And am trying very hard to shake the sense of prudishness that was pounded into me.”

Kolivan’s lips twitched. “You could have other things pounding into you.” 

Shiro’s mouth fell open and Keith smacked his husband’s arm. Well, he supposed he  _ had _ walked into that one… It seemed every language under the sun had its fair share of euphemisms and innuendos. 

Shiro chuckled and shook his head. “Maybe… in the future. I would need to adjustー oh good Heavens, adjust to the idea!” He rubbed his forehead as the other man opened his mouth for another quip. Thankfully, Kolivan decided to tease him no more, and simply chuckled at his expense. 

Keith snorted in amusement and rolled his eyes. He sat up and rose to his knees to link his arms around Shiro’s shoulders, playing with the long hair coming free of his braid. “Why don’t you leave behind thoughts of your Heaven, and focus on what is in front of you now?” he asked in a low voice, the words whispered just out of reach of his lips. 

Hesitantly, as if unsure whether he was allowed to, Shiro put his hands on Keith’s waist. They fit so perfectly in the slight curve above his hips, like they were made for each other. “You still want me? I fear I may have ruined the mood entirely.” 

“You have no need to fear when you are with us,” Keith told him, the words augmented by Kolivan’s large, warm palm that slid up Shiro’s back to rest comfortably on his shoulder. “Not armies, nor judgement, nor even the ghosts that haunt you. We will always stand by your side, through every storm. As many times as it takes.” 

Shiro smiled and leaned his forehead against Keith’s, relaxing under Kolivan’s reassuring squeeze to his shoulder. “Thank you.” 

There was a beat of silence, and he swore he  _ felt  _ the mood shift as easily as a change in the wind. He certainly felt it when Keith’s hands slid down his chest. “Are you ready?”

Shiro shivered ー not in fear, or anxiety, or unease… but in anticipation. It was a shiver that sparked right down his spine to ignite the embers that had been glowing lowly below his belly. “Yes,” he breathed as he captured Keith’s lips once more.

The hand at his back left, fingers lingering against his skin for a heartbeat longer as Kolivan moved away. The jarl settled himself at the top of the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “I think this will be best. Let him have the fun.” The smirk he gave Shiro was warm rather than teasing, though Shiro still couldn’t quite make sense of his words. He trusted them, though. 

Keith nodded, apparently understanding and agreeing. He swung a leg over Kolivan as if he were a horse and braced a hand on the carved headboard. Shiro watched, spellbound, as he reached his other hand down, delving between his legs, and slipped two fingers into himself with a content sigh. He drew his fingers out, bringing with them a trail of glistening wetness, and then reached down to take Kolivan’s massive length in his hand, stroking a few times to coat it fully. Kolivan looked, at first glance, as stoic as ever, but the slight hitch of his breath and the subtle flex of his fingers on Keith’s hips betrayed him and revealed he was just as turned on as the other two. 

Shiro bit his lip as he watched Keith lower himself down. He could not tear his eyes away; Lucifer himself could not conjure a more enticing sight. Keith tipped his head back with a groan and worked his hips in little circles as he rubbed his own cock, swallowing more and more until he was fully seated on Kolivan’s thighs.

Keith pushed his hair out of his eyes, panting. In the flickering candle light, the sweat beading on his skin made him gleam like a glittering geode broken open. He looked over his shoulder at Shiro, flashing him a smile that beckoned him closer, and Shiro felt a sudden sense of  déjà vu as he remembered that first night he had spent in this new world, when he had stumbled in on Keith sat astride Kolivan, his eyes daring Shiro to come join them. It had taken him so very long, but he was ready now. More than ready, he was  _ eager _ . 

Kolivan slid his hands up the long length of Keith’s back, raising goosebumps in his wake and prompting Keith to tip his head back with a sigh. “You will still need some preparation,” he murmured. It was true; their earlier endeavor to do so had been interrupted by their discussion. 

Kolivan reached for the jar of oil that had been set on the bedside table once more, and held it out towards Shiro. “Prepare him as I showed you. It is very much the same, but you will need to use the oil.” 

Shiro took the jar and looked between it, his hands, and Keith’s buttocks. He lifted his gaze to Kolivan’s, shame burning his ears. “I am afraid I may hurt him,” he admitted. 

“You won’t,” Kolivan assured him. 

Keith readjusted his grip on the headboard, letting his head hang for a moment. “I haven’t the patience for more ‘lessons’ this evening, Kolivan, please…” he begged, his voice slightly strained. 

Kolivan took the jar of oil back and tipped a liberal amount onto his fingers before reaching behind Keith. Though he could not see, he was clearly no stranger to it; he trailed a finger down the cleft of his ass until he reached the puckered entrance, then circled around it to massage the oil into the skin. When he finally dipped one finger in, Keith gasped. At two, he groaned. A tease of a third, and he shuddered and whimpered a plea under his breath. 

“Please, Shiro, oh…” Keith pushed his hips back on the fingers as they withdrew, and Shiro’s own cock twitched at the sound of his name falling so wantonly from those lips. 

Kolivan laid a slick hand on one trembling thigh, steadying him. Keith pushed his hair out of his eyes and took a few breaths to compose himself. Perhaps not completely, because when he turned to Shiro, his eyes were still dark with lust, but they were clear. 

Plucking the jar of oil up once more, Keith held it out to Shiro. “Here,” he smiled. “Always oil a sword before sheathing it.” 

Shiro nearly fumbled the jar as a stunned squeak escaped him, and he gaped at his friend. Keith just smirked at him and arched an eyebrow meaningfully.

Shiro’s heart was pounding in his chest as he poured some oil onto his fingertips. Taking a deep breath, he wrapped a hand around his cock for the first time in his life, and bit his lip at the onslaught of sensation. It was so hot, spreading like fire all around his length, through his hips and thighs, all the way up to his chest… The one remaining shred of sense he had left reminded him to move his hand as they had. He did so, and  _ oh _ , the heat burned brighter inside him as if someone had blown air over embers, his thoughts fizzling out like sparks popping among the flames. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Kolivan chuckled, his voice bringing him back to Earth. 

“Such a shame you’ve been denying yourself this,” Keith added. “But such a blessing we get to see you experience it at last.” 

Words were beyond him, so Shiro just nodded. He swallowed thickly and noted that his length was completely coated in oil (and achingly hard, begging for a release he had never known yet  _ knew  _ he needed). Yet again, he found himself itching to proceed yet uncertain how to do so. And yet again, his lovers stepped in to help; Keith tilted his hips and arched his back, and Kolivan held him open and wided his own legs so that Shiro would have somewhere to kneel. 

_ It is not a thing that requires thinking, _ Shiro repeated Kolivan’s words to himself, then took them to heart and simply let himself feel, for he knew if he allowed himself to think, he would lose himself in overthinking. He took himself in hand, braced his other hand on Keith’s back for support, and brought the head of his cock to Keith’s puckered entrance. 

He was overwhelmed immediately, before the head was even fully inside. To think his hand around his cock had been hot…  _ oh _ , but this put that to shame. This was hotter than blood in battle, hotter than fire in a hearth, hotter than Hell itself… but this was no sin, no; how could it be, when it felt so  _ right _ ? 

“Go slowly,” Kolivan’s voice came to him over Keith’s shuddery gasps as Shiro pressed into the tight, tight heat. His senses were fractured, bits and pieces coming to him in flashes ー the ghost of a breeze caressing his skin, the flicker of candle light bathing their joined bodies, the tremble in Keith’s arms as he gripped the headboard with white knuckles, the shift of weight as Kolivan reached down and massaged Keith’s cock, making him twitch and gasp and swallow more of Shiro’s length inside him. 

“Oh gods…” the plea fell from Keith’s lips like it had been punched out of him from within. 

“A-am I hurting you?” Shiro was only half inside him. He didn’t know if he had the strength to remove himself ー not just because he was so unwilling to leave, but also because Keith was gripping him so tightly he wasn’t sure if it was possible.

Keith shook his head. Even such a tiny action sent a shiver of movement down to where they were joined, everything amplified in the throes of passion. “No, no,” Keith said quickly. He took a deep breath. “It’s just… intense. But good.  _ So  _ good…” His right hand delved between his legs to pick up where Kolivan had left off, rubbing himself in quick little circles that loosened his muscles enough for Shiro to slide another few centimeters inside. “ _ Fuck _ , it’s so much, so good,” Keith whispered.

Shiro couldn’t help but agree. It was indescribable. He could see why this could drive men to ruin, to cause nations and kingdoms to rise and fall, to bring whole cities and armies crumbling to their knees… But what he wouldn’t give to stay here on his knees with them, just as they were. 

Keith, on the other hand, appeared unsatisfied with staying as they were. As always, he was the force that spurred them onward; pushing to go west, dragging Shiro into a new life, spurring them all onward toward the future… and now pushing himself back onto Shiro’s length with a moan that matched the one he drew out of Shiro himself as he was buried, completely, inside. It was so, so tight, and it didn’t take much imagination to feel the girth of Kolivan’s length pressed up against his. As if all that wasn’t enough, Keith shifted his weight to get his knees under him, then with a flex of his core and a push of his arms, he righted himself to sit fully on top of their cocks with a gasp that shook the flame on the bedside table and made Shiro’s vision swim. 

“Steady,” Kolivan laid a hand on his chest, his voice sounding anything but. “You could hurt yourself, or us.” 

Keith let his head fall back with a groan, but whether it was in frustration at the warning or in bliss, Shiro didn’t know. He couldn’t imagine sitting impaled on two cocks was particularly comfortable… but then again, he himself was very much in heaven from his position. Keith was closer to him, like this, so close that he could feel the heat radiating from his back, and feel the messy, half-undone braids tickling his chest. 

Keith reached a hand back, clumsily feeling behind him until he located Shiro’s head, where he tangled his fingers in his hair. Instincts Shiro didn’t think he had knocked loose in his chest and made him turn his face into the side of Keith’s neck to kiss his throat. A pleased hum vibrated under his lips. 

“I can’t see his face,” Keith pouted. “Kolivan, tell me. What does his face look like?”

Kolivan lifted his eyes to meet Shiro’s, a smile spreading over his lips as he watched Shiro panting for breath. “He looks lost in the pleasure of your body, my love.”

“Noー” Shiro protested, shaking his head. “I’m not… I’m not lost. I’m…” his breath caught in his chest as he realized what this feeling is. “I’m… found. I feel… at home, with you two.  _ Because  _ of you two.”

Kolivan’s smile grew wider and Keith twisted to look at him over his shoulder. He reached his arm back to run his fingers through Shiro’s hair. 

“You will always have a home here,” Keith told him. Mischief flashed across his eyes and he let go of Shiro only to reach around behind him again and skim his fingers down his side, down his hip, and lower. “Both in this house, and here,” he said, fingers teasing at the place where Shiro’s length disappeared into him. 

Shiro buried his face in the back of Keith’s neck, both out of embarrassment and because of the overwhelming heat that washed through him at the touch. Distantly, he heard the low rumble of Kolivan’s chuckle before he felt his face being guided away from his sanctuary of inky tresses, as Keith pulled him forward for a kiss. The angle was awkward, but the kiss itself was not lacking in passion. After Keith finished with him, Shiro found himself given only half a breath of respite before Kolivan was pulling him forward to kiss him too.

Kolivan released him and slid a hand down his back, coming to rest on top of Shiro’s buttock. “I take it you know what to do from here?” he asked, his voice warm with a hint of teasing. 

“Um.” Not really, because the extent of his knowledge was ‘ _ a man and his wife may join together to produce a child, so long as they remain clothed, refrain from lewd touching, take as little sinful pleasure from the act as possible, and abstain from doing the deed on feast days, fast days, holy days, Sundays, Wednesdays, Fridays... _ ’, and none of that was particularly applicable in this situation or helpful in general. Really, he was just now realizing how he had only been taught what _not_ to do, rather than what _to_ do. But the hand curled around his hip, which slowly pushed him back a few inches before pulling him forward once more, was considerably more helpful. A shudder of pleasure raced down Shiro’s spine and he nodded. “I-I think I understand the gist.” 

“Do what feels right,” Keith told him. “Do not dwell on wondering if it is correct; if it feels right, it is.” 

“I think, to avoid injury, perhaps only one of us ought to move.” Kolivan met Shiro’s eyes and gave him a little nod. “Shiro, you start. And you,” he gave Keith a pointed look, his hand closing around his hip to stop the little grinding circles Keith was doing. “Behave.”

“Never,” Keith promised with a wicked-sharp smirk. Kolivan feigned a stern frown and reached between his legs to tweak his cock in reprimand. Keith hissed and tightened around them both, making all three groan. 

Deciding he had best hurl himself off this cliff before he could burst, Shiro drew himself about halfway out of the snug hold around his length, then pushed back in. 

“Oh,” Keith breathed the word more as an exhale than a proper word. “T-that’s good, Shiro, so good.” 

The praise went straight to his cock and he may have taken the next thrust a little too fast, but it was well-worth it when Keith tipped back his head with a breathy “yes, ah…” and Kolivan let out a rumble of a groan in response. Shiro adjusted his grip on Keith and Kolivan shifted to accommodate him, letting him take Keith’s hips while he himself offered a hand to help Keith balance and busied his other hand with thumbing at Keith’s cock. It took Shiro a few minutes to find a rhythm and turn his short, jerky thrusts into something resembling skilled. His partners let him experiment, but when he developed a more steady, reliable rhythm, they joined in and added their own instruments to the song; rolling hips and grabbing hands, a chorus of gasps and exclamations, the thump of the bed striking the wall like a drum, the slap of skin meeting skin as they pulled apart and came together over and over again… the tempo rose faster and crescendoed, and Shiro suddenly became aware of an intense heat blooming in his chest and spreading, getting hotter as it built low in his hipsー

He stopped abruptly, alarmed at the sheer intensity of it. 

Keith pushed back on his cock with a grunt and twisted to look over his shoulder. “Why did you stop?” he asked, confused. 

Shiro blinked spots from his eyes. His hands were shaking. It was already receding, whatever it was, and a part of him mourned it despite not even knowing what it had been. “I… I suddenly felt feverish,” he admitted. “It was so hot, like a boiling wave…” 

“Shiro, that is a good thing,” Kolivan told him, laying a hand over Shiro’s. “That is the prelude to completion.” 

“Didn’t it feel good?” Keith asked. When Shiro nodded, Keith smiled. “Good. Chase that feeling. Let it grow stronger until it overtakes you, and savor it.” He released a shaky breath and ground down on their cocks. “And by the gods, get me there as well,” he added with a wistful groan. 

Shiro chuckled breathlessly and resumed. He quickly found his rhythm again and the heat returned. It was no less pleasurable the second time, nor any less powerful, but this time he allowed himself to feel it, embrace it, relish it,  _ pursue  _ it with sharp, quick thrusts that rocked all three of them and pulled the most delicious sounds out of them. The heat in his belly rose like a cresting wave, then slammed down on him so strongly he saw stars burst behind his eyes and he buried himself in the tight, tight heat that seemed to pull his very soul out of his body. 

He shook like a fawn in the aftermath, feeling like he was swimming in light itself. Fingers combed through his hair and sent little jolts of lightning down to his cock, which was already softening enough to slip out of Keith. 

“He finished?” Kolivan asked, sounding like far-away thunder.

“Indeed,” Keith replied, the word vibrating through Shiro where his chest was pressed to Keith’s back. 

The spots cleared from his eyes. He realized they were both watching him with pride and love in their eyes, but he alone seemed to have gone soft.

Shiro’s eyes widened. “Y-you… you didn’t…?”

“Not quite yet,” Keith admitted.

Whatever bliss he had still swimming around in him suddenly cooled. “I-I apologize, I should haveー” Should have what? He didn’t know what he was doing. But it seemed rather selfish to chase his own pleasure when they had not reached theirs.

“It’s alright,” Kolivan said. “We did not expect you to last long, considering this is your first time.”

“After all, it’s not as if you allowed yourself any practice before this.” Keith flashed him a knowing grin. He ground his hips in little circles, accidentally brushing Shiro’s spent cock. 

Shiro winced as he pulled back a bit, both at his oversensitive cock and at seeing how much… oh gods, that was seed, wasn’t it? His seed, dripping out of Keith, from _that_ place, just the picture of utter debauchery and sー no, no, there was no sin here. Nothing shameful about it… save perhaps that he had not lasted as long as his partners, that is. 

“Do not worry about it, truly.” Kolivan took his hand. “Come, lie beside me. This is a sight to behold, and you missed it back there.” 

Shiro let himself be drawn up to the head of the bed, and he didn’t lie down so much as he collapsed onto the furs and pillows, his damp skin slapping against Kolivan as he landed half on his arm. He was still trying to catch his breath after the earth-shattering experience he had just had, and any remaining breath was knocked out of his chest when he looked up. 

The most brilliant sunrise, the most awe-inspiring thunderstorm, the magical glow of the northern lights that danced in the sky in the cold winter nights… no sight on Earth (nor, he would dare say, in Heaven) could match the beauty of Keith sitting astride Kolivan and looking down at Shiro with such unbridled love and desire in the depths of his midnight-dark eyes, glowing in the candle light like a saint painted in an illuminated manuscript, or like an idol that Shiro would happily fall to his knees in front of. Tempestuous, bewitching, ethereal… a thing of fire and storm and chaos contained within a loving heart and strong mind ー a strong body as well, which Keith made clear as he pushed his hair back with one hand, lean muscles gleaming in the soft light. His other hand slid down his chest, bypassing the hammer pendant that guarded the entrance to the valley between his breasts, matching the one that hung around Shiro’s own neck. The strong muscles of his thighs and abdomen flexed and rolled like the waves of the North Sea as he resumed riding Kolivan’s cock, his pace quick and hard. Kolivan met each roll of his hips with a thrust of his own, and the two of them were so well-tuned to each other's bodies that it was like watching one being. 

At one especially hard snap of Kolivan’s hips, Keith let out a gasp and his eyes rolled back as he swayed like a birch in a thunderstorm. Shiro’s hand reached up, independent of his mind and with its goal unknown ー to touch such an ethereal masterpiece? To steady him? To see if he was real? Regardless of whatever reason he might have had, Keith grasped his hand for balance and wove their fingers together, using his grip as leverage to ride harder and faster. 

“Shiro…” Kolivan’s voice was strained, and sweat shone on his forehead and made the tattooed eagle glitter. “Touch him.” 

This time, Shiro knew what he meant. His right hand might be caught in Keith’s tight grip, but he reached down with his left towards that flushed little nub poking out of Keith’s dark curls, just above where Kolivan’s cock disappeared into him over and over like the crashing waves swallowing rocks in the surf. It was  _ hot _ , so hot, and wet, and somehow both soft and hard like supple leather wrapped around the iron hilt of a sword. His movements were clumsy and unpracticed, but judging from the gasp above him and the way Keith ground down onto his hand, he certainly didn’t mind. Mere seconds later, Keith let out a sound that made even Shiro’s spent cock twitch with renewed strength, and he shoved himself down to bury Kolivan in deep and grind down on Shiro’s fingers, his muscles spasming around them. Whether it was the heat of Keith’s cunt tightening around him over and over again, or the way the movement pushed Shiro’s hand and the chilly metal of the arm-ring around his wrist into the hot skin just above Kolivan’s groin, or both…  _ something  _ brought Kolivan to the edge as well, and he snapped his hips up into Keith once more with a long groan before suddenly falling back, lax and panting. 

Seconds passed, or perhaps minutes ー it felt as though they were removed from time, in a world all their own. When Keith finally stopped shivering with aftershocks, he released the vice-tight grip he had on Shiro’s hand and pulled himself off Kolivan’s softened cock with a wet, obscene sound that made Shiro wince even as his cock twitched in interest. He didn’t go far, instead seating himself on Kolivan’s glistening abs, and leaned down to take the jarl’s face in his hands as he kissed him, slow and deep. Shiro felt breathless just from watching them, and only got more breathless when Keith pulled back and switched to kissing Shiro. Fire tickled feebly between his hips and if he wasn’t so tired he might have been tempted to ask them to go again. As if he could hear his thoughts, Keith chuckled a little as he pulled back from the kiss. He smiled down at him for a moment, thumbs stroking the scruff of his beard, then he turned away and slid off the bed. Shiro saw he was heading for the toiletry chamber off to the side of the bedroom, but then he was distracted by Kolivan pulling him into a kiss of his own. By the time they parted for air, Keith had returned and was climbing into bed on Shiro’s other side. 

“How was it?” Keith asked, winding an arm around Shiro’s waist while Kolivan drew the fur pelt blankets over their bare bodies. 

Shiro’s breath left him in a rush as he remembered it. “Incredible,” he breathed. “I am only sorry I could not last longer.” 

“You will, in time,” Kolivan assured him. “You will grow attuned to your body, and to ours, as we will to you. Perhaps then we can spend hours enjoying each other, until the candles burn low.” 

Shiro shivered pleasantly, though he was not sure if it was due to the words or the light drag of Keith’s fingers as they trailed up and down his arm. “I can hardly imagine such a thing… Tonight I lasted ー what, a few minutes?” 

“It doesn’t matter; no one is keeping score,” Keith told him. “You lasted longer than we expected, frankly.”

“You should have seen Keith, the first time.” Kolivan’s eyes glittered. “A mere brush of my fingers, and he was trembling to pieces like a leaf in the wind.” 

Keith lifted his head and frowned. “As if you were any better? I had barely gotten a hand around you when you were already bursting. You nearly blinded me.” He turned to Shiro and shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe the mess he made in my hair… and then had the nerve to fall asleep! After he said he would take first watch over our campfire!”

Shiro blushed at the mental image that made. “I feel quite ready to fall asleep, myself,” he admitted. The adrenaline was quickly wearing off, leaving his limbs heavy and his eyes threatening to fall shut at any moment.

“It is late, and we have exhausted ourselves.” Kolivan hummed. “Will you stay with us tonight?” 

Shiro could not imagine having the strength or will to pull himself away from them. “I would… like that, yes…” He managed to get the words out, somehow, but was rapidly being drawn in by the warmth surrounding him. He barely heard them bid goodnight, and probably stumbled over his own before he let the feeling of fingers stroking through his hair lull him off to the soundest, deepest sleep of his life.

᛬ᚡᚬᛚᛏᚱᚬᚾ᛬

The morning sun pressed against Keith’s eyes, utterly unwelcome in its brightness. Barely awake, he could sense the presence of a body beside him and he eagerly burrowed into it. At the slight movement, a twinge of soreness wound up his back ー a somewhat new form of soreness that carried with it an echo of familiarity that left no room for mistake about its origins. The body beside him, too, was both familiar and new. Keith opened his eyes and blinked away the dregs of sleep to find that it was not Kolivan beside him as usual, but Shiro. He was wedged between the two of them in their bed, still sleeping peacefully, with Keith cuddled up to his front and Kolivan’s arm draped about his waist. 

At once, the early morning sunlight became pale in comparison to the glow that bloomed in Keith’s chest and spread all throughout him, warming his entire soul. The memory of what they had done last night warmed him in other ways, like embers glowing between his hips, but the sleepiness of the morning helped to temper the flames. He was so happy that Shiro had joined them, and so incredibly content to lay here basking in the joy that came from seeing him nestled between them, sleeping soundly. Was he dreaming of good things, too? Was Kolivan?

Keith lifted his gaze from Shiro’s sleeping face and looked past him, only to find Kolivan awake and watching him in turn with a soft expression. They shared a quiet smile and exchanged no words, for words would only disturb the peace that still swaddled the early morning. They needed no words, anyway. 

Closing his eyes once more, Keith settled down with a smile to savor these last few precious moments before they would need to get up and begin their day. Together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all, medieval Christian views on sex were WILD… There’s like a laundry-list of things you were not allowed to do (including “enjoy it”, what the fuckkk), and it was so extensive that it almost sounds easier to just say fuck it and be a monk… EXCEPT not even they were off the hook; it was believed that completely abstaining was also bad for your health and could lead to death (*laughs in asexual*), and to prevent a build-up of fluids, celibate clergy were expected to do blood-letting… because semen and blood (along with phlem) are all basically interchangeable things known as “the humours” (*jazz hands* Medieval medicine, yo!) Masturbation was encouraged by some physicians, but the clergy said it was a big no-no… although the 14th century English physician John of Gaddesden did admit that if a women “has a fainting fit, a midwife should insert a finger covered with oil of lily, laurel, or spikenard, and shake it vigorously about” (like dude, you’re not doing the hokey pokey…)   
> And don’t even get me started on the demon babies… 
> 
> Anyway, here’s a fun flowchart you can use to see if your sexytimes hold up to the medieval standard… these are just some of the restrictions, not even all of them: https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2014/01/a-sexual-decision-flowchart-that-makes-everything-simpler-for-medieval-men/283364/ 
> 
> Again, I’m super sorry this took so long to get out. Thank you all for being patient while I was dealing with a lot of personal issues. I hope that the last few chapters will come easier to me and I hope I can finish this story before I get too busy with moving country and all that life stress.


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